«  f   .. 


•  y 


■■•:»*-■;  :<■?-.•■ 


»«• 


DNfV.  OF  CALFF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


RHODA    FLEMING 


Mr.  Georgt  Meredith  is  the  greatest  English  tiozWist  living;  lie  is 
probably  the  greatest  novelist  of  our  time.  He  is  a  man  0/  genius,  a 
literary  artist,  and  truly  a  great  writer.  —  The  Beacon. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 

TITLES. 

THE    ORDEAL    OF    R'OHARD  RhODA    FLEMING. 

FEVEREL.  BEAUCHAMP  S    CAREER. 

EVAN    HARRINGTON.  THE    EGOIST. 

HARRY    RICHMOND.  DIANA   OF  THE   CROSSWAYS. 

SANDRA    BELLONI.  THE    SHAVING    OF   SHAGPAT. 
VITTORIA.  AND    FARINA. 

ONE  OF  OUR  CONQUERORS.  THE    TRAGIC    COMEDIANS. 


SOME     PRESS     NOTICES. 

Mr.  Meredith's  novels  are  an  intellectual  tonic.  'I'liey  are  the  Rreat,  and  in- 
deed, we  may  say,  they  are  the  only  novels  of  any  livinp  author  which  deserve  to 
be  called  great.  Thcv  will  take  the  same  hii;h  and  peiinanent  rank  that  is  as- 
sisned  to  the  novels  of  George  Eliot  and  Georj;e  Sand.  They  are  deeper  m 
intellectual  power  than  Dickens,  while  they  have  less  of  his  dramatiiations.  They 
are  an  intellectual  mine,  and  will  repay  careful  study.  —  Boston  Traveller. 

The  London  "  Athenxum  "  says  of  "Diana  of  the  Crossways":  "It  is  a 
study  of  character,  and  it  is  also  a  study  of  emotion  ;  it  is  a  picture  of  fact  and  ol 
the  world,  and  it  js  touched  with  generous  romance  ;  it  is  rich  in  kindly  comedy, 
and  it  abounds  in  natural  passion  ;  it  sets  forth  a  selection  of  many  hum.in  ele- 
ments, and  it  is  joyful  and  sorrowful,  wholesome  with  laughter  and  fruitful  of  tears 
IS  life  itself." 

Mr.  Meredith's  novels  certainly  have  the  qualities  which  we  marked  as  essen- 
tial to  permanent  literature.  Thev  can  set  before  you  pictures  of  happv  love,  or 
of  youth  and  nature  that  can  never  be  forgotten  ;  scenes  that  flash  before  your 
eyes  when  your  thoughts  are  elsewhere.  .  .  .  Whoever  reads  Mr.  Meredith  does 
not  waste  his  time.  He  is  in  good  company,  among  gentlemen  and  ladies  ; 
above  all,   in  the  company  of  a    Genius.  —  Daily  News. 

Genius  of  a  truly  original  and  spontaneous  kind  shines  in  every  one  of  these 
books;  of  fancy  there  is  only  too  much,  perhaps;  with  healthy  benevolent  sym- 
pathy they  abound;  and  if  there  exists  anv  greater  master  of  his  native  tongue 
than  Mr.  Meredith,  we  have  yet  to  hear  of  the  gentleman's  name.  —  .S"/.  James  s 
Gazette. 

It  was  not  until  1859,  when  he  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty-two,  that  he  pro- 
duced "  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,"  his  first  mature  novel,  charged  to  the 
brim  with  earnestness,  wit,  strength  of  conception.  Meredith's  stories  generally 
end  happilv ;  but  this  one  is  profoundly  tragic.  I  have  read  many  of  his  chapters 
without  being  moved,  even  when  the  situation  in  itself  must  theoretic.illy  be  ac- 
knowledged an  affectin'::  one.  Hut  it  seems  to  me  that  the  heart  which  is  not 
touched,  and  the  eves  that  do  not  become  moist,  in  the  re.iding  of  the  last  portions 
of  "  Richard  Feverel  "  must  be  indurated  with  a  glaze  of  indi.fereiice  which  is 
not  to  be  envied.  —  G.   P.   Lathrop,  in  Atlantic  Monthly. 


12  Volumes,  English  Edition,  uncut,  izmo.      Price,  $2.00. 

12  Volumes,  English  Edition,  half  calf.       Extra,  $3000  the  set. 

12  Volumes,  Popular  American  Edition,  i6mo,  cloth.      Price,  $1.50. 


ROBERTS    BROTHERS,    Publishers, 

BOSTON,    MASS. 


RHODA    FLEMING 


A     S TOR Y 


BY 

GEORGE    MEREDITH 


AUTHOR'S     EDITION 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS 
1891 


John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGB 

I.    THE  KENTISH  FAMILY     ......         1 

II.  QUEEN  ANNe's  FARM       .        '    .  .  .  ,  .8 

III.  SUGGESTS  THE  MIGHT  OF  THE  MONEY  DEMON     .  .      18 

IV.  THE  TEXT  FROM  SCRIPTURE      .....      25 
T.  THE  SISTEKS  MEET  .  .  .  ^  .  .      32 

VI.    EDWARD  AND  ALGERNON  .  .  ,  .  .35 

VII.    GREAT  NEWS  FROM  DAHLIA 46 

VIII.    INTRODUCES  MRS.  LOVELL 55 

IX.    ROBERT  INTERVENES        .  .  .  .  .  .      62 

X.    DAHLIA  IS  NOT  VISIBLE 67 

XI.    AN  INDICATIVE  DUET  IN  A  MINOR  KEY        ,            .            .76 
XII.    AT  THE  THEATRE 85 

XIII.  THE  FARMER  SPEAKS 93 

XIV.  BETWEEN  EHODA  AND  ROBERT            ....    100 
XV.    A  VISIT  TO  WREXBT  HALL 107 

XVI.    AT  FAIRLY  PARK Il4 

XVII.    A  YEOMAN  OF  THE  OLD  BREED  ....    121 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


criAP.  PAcn 

X7III.    AN  ASSEJinLT  AT  THE  PILOT  INN       ....    I'M 

XIX.    nOBKRT  SMITTKN  LOW     ......    147 

XX.    MRS.  LOVELL  SHOWS  A  TAME  RHUTE  .  .  .    159 

XXI.    GIVES    A    GLIMPSE    OF    WHAT    POOR    VILLAMES    THE 

STORY  CONTAINS 164 

XXII.    EDWARD  TAKES  HIS  COURSE 176 

XXIII.    MAJOR  PERCY  WARING 187 

XXIV.    WAKREACn  VILLAGE  CIIURCn lOS 

XXV.    OP    THE    FEARFUL     TEMPTATION    WHICH    CAME    UPON 
ANTHONY    HACKBUT,  AND    OF    HIS    MEETING  WITH 

DAHLIA 205 

XXVI.    IN  THE   PARK 220 

XXVII.    CONTAINS  A  STUDY  OF  A  FOOL  IN  TROURLB  .  .  226 

xxviii.  Edward's  letter 232 

XXIX.    FURTHERMORE  OF  THE  FOOL 237 

XXX.    THE  EXPIATION 24S 

XXXI.    THE  MELTING  OF  THE  THOUSAND      ....    201 
XXXII.    LA  QUESTION  d'aRGENT 277 

XXXIII.  bDWARO's  RETURN 287 

XXXIV.  FATHER  AND  SON 297 

XXXV.    THE  NIGHT  BEFORE 303 

XXXVI.    EDWARD  MEETS  HIS  MATCH      .....   307 

XXXVII.    EDWARD  TRIES  HIS  ELOQUENCE.       .  .  .  ■   31-i 

XXXVIII.    TOO  LATE       ,  .  .  .  .  .  -  .318 

XXXIX.    DAHLIA  GOES  HOME 326 

XL.    A    FREAK    OF    THE    MON  lOY-DEMUN,    illAT    MAY    HAVE 

BEEN  ANTICIPATED 334 


CONTENTS- 


Vll 


CHAP. 

XLi.  dahlia's  frenzy         .  . 

XLII.    ANTHONY  IN  A  COLLAPSE 

XLIII.    RHODA  PLEDGES  HER  HAND  . 

XLIV.    THE  ENEMY  APPEARS       .  . 

XLV.    THE  FARMER  IS  AWAKENED  . 

XLVI.    WHEN  THE  NIGHT  IS  DARKEST 

XLVII.    DAWN  IS  NEAR         ,           .  , 

XLVIII.    CONCLUSION             .          .  . 


PAQB 

344 
350 
361 
370 
375 
380 
390 
395 


RHODA    FLEMING. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    KENTISH    FAMILY, 

Remains  of  onr  good  yeomanry  blood  will  be  found  in  Kent, 
developing  stiff,  solid,  unobtrusive  men,  and  very  personable 
■women.  The  distinction  survives  there  between  Kentish 
■women  and  women  of  Kent,  as  a  true  South-eastern  dame 
will  let  yoa  know,  if  it  is  her  fortune,  or  her  fancy,  to  belong 
to  that  favoured  portion  of  the  county  where  the  great  battle 
was  fought,  in  which  the  gentler  sex  pei'formed  manful  work, 
bat  on  what  luckless  heads  we  hear  not ;  and  when  garrulous 
tradition  is  discreet,  the  severe  historic  Muse  declines  to 
hazard  a  guess.  Saxon,  one  would  presume,  since  it  is  thought 
something  to  hare  broken  them. 

My  plain  story  is  of  two  Kentish  damsels,  and  runs  from 
a  home  of  flowers  into  regions  where  flowers  are  few  and 
sickly,  on  to  where  the  flowers  which  breathe  sweet  breath 
have  been  proved  in  mortal  fire. 

Mrs.  Fleming,  of  Queen  Anne's  Farm,  w'as  the  wife  of  a 
yeoman-farmer  of  the  couuty.  Both  were  of  sound  Kentish 
extraction,  albeit  varieties  of  the  breed.  The  farm  had  its 
name  from  a  tradition,  common  to  many  other  farmhouses 
"within  a  circuit  of  the  metropolis,  that  the  ante-Hanoverian 

B 


2  RHODA  FLEMING. 

lady  had  used  the  place  in  her  day  as  a  nursery-hospital  for 
the  royal  little  ones.  It  was  a  square  three-storied  buildinj^ 
of  red-biick,  much  beaten  and  stained  by  the  weather,  with 
an  ivied  side,  up  which  the  ivy  grew  stoutly,  topping  the 
roof  in  triumpliant  lumps.  The  house  could  hardly  be 
termed  picturesque.  Its  aspect  had  struck  many  eyes  as 
being  very  much  that  of  a  red-coat  sentinel  grenadier, 
battered  with  service,  and  standing  firmly  enoui^li,  though 
not  at  case.  Surrounding  it  was  a  high  wall,  built  partly 
of  Hint  and  partly  of  brick,  and  ringed  all  over  with  grey 
lichen  and  brown  spots  of  bearded  moss,  that  bore  witness 
to  the  touch  of  many  winds  and  rains.  Tufts  of  pale  grass, 
and  gilliflowers,  ami  travelling  stone-crop,  hung  from  the 
wall,  and  driblets  of  ivy  ran  broadening  to  the  oiitcr  ground. 
The  royal  Arms  were  said  to  have  .surmounted  the  great  iron 
ga  'way ;  but  they  had  vanished,  cither  with  the  family,  or 
at  the  indications  of  an  approaching  rust.  Rust  deli  led  its 
bars ;  but,  when  you  looked  through  them,  the  splendour  of 
an  unrivalled  garden  gave  vivid  signs  of  youth,  and  of  the 
taste  of  an  orderly,  laborious,  and  cunning  hand.  The  garden 
was  under  Mrs.  Fleming's  charge.  The  joy  of  her  love  for 
it  was  written  on  its  lustrous  beds,  as  poets  write.  She  had 
the  poetic  passion  for  flowers.  Perhaps  her  taste  may  now 
seem  questionable.  She  cherished  the  old-fashioned  delight 
in  tulips ;  the  house  was  reached  on  a  gravel-path  between 
rows  of  tulips,  rich  with  one  natural  blush,  or  freaked  by 
art.  She  liked  a  bulk  of  colour ;  and  when  the  dahlia 
dawned  upon  our  gardens,  she  gave  her  heart  to  dahlias. 
By  good  desert,  the  fervent  woman  gained  a  prize  at  a 
flower-show  for  one  of  her  dahlias,  and  "Dahlia"  was  the 
name  uttered  at  the  christening  of  her  eldest  daughter, 
at  which  all  Wicxby  parish  laughed  as  long  as  the  joke 
could  last.  Tliere  was  laughter  also  when  Mrs.  Fleming's 
second  daughter  received  the  name  of  "  Rhoda ";  but  it 
did  not  endure  for  so  long  a  space,  as  it  was  known 
tha*  she  had  taken  more  to  the  solitary  and  reflective 
rcadin  r  of  her  Bible,  and  to  thoughts  upon  flowers  eternal. 
Count  y  people  are  not  inclined  to  tolerate  the  display  ol 
a  pas  ion  for  anything.  They  find  it  as  intrusive  and 
exaspe  ating  as  is,  in  the  midst  of  larger  congregations, 
what  we  call  genius.     For  some  years,   Mrs.  Fleming's  pro 


THE  k:enttsh  family.  3 

ceedino-s  were  simplj  atliemefor  gossips,  and  her  vanity -vvna 
openly  pai'doned,  until  that  delusively  prosperous  appearance 
■which,  her  hibour  lent  to  the  house,  was  worn  through  by  the 
enforced  confession  of  there  being  poverty  in  the  household. 
The  ragged  elbow  was  then  projected  in  the  face  of  Wrexby 
in  a  manner  to  preclude  it  from  a  sober  appreciation  of  the 
fairness  of  the  face.  Critically,  moreover,  her  admission  oE 
great  poppy-heads  into  her  garden  was  objected  to.  She 
Avould  squander  her  care  on  poppies,  and  she  had  been  heard 
to  say  that,  while  she  lived,  her  children  should  be  fully  fed. 
The  encouragement  of  flaunting  weeds  in  a  decent  garden  was 
indicative  of  a  moral  twist  that  the  expressed  resolution  to 
supply  her  table  with  plentiful  nourishment,  no  matter 
whence  it  came,  or  how  provided,  sufficiently  confirmed. 
The  reason  with  which  she  Avas  stated  to  have  fortified  her 
stern  resolve  was  of  the  irritating  order,  right  in  the  abstract, 
and  utterly  unprincipled  in  the  application.  She  said,  "  Good, 
bread,  and  good  beef,  and  enough  of  both,  make  good  blood; 
and  my  children  shall  be  stout."  This  is  such  a  thing  as 
may  be  announced  by  foreign  princesses  and  rulers  over 
serfs  ;  but  English  Wresb}'-,  in  cogitative  mood,  demanded 
an  equivalent  for  its  beef  and  divers  economies  consumed  by 
the  hungry  children  of  the  authoritative  woman.  Practically 
it  was  obedient,  for  it  had  got  the  habit  of  supplying  her. 
Though  payment  was  long  in  arrear,  the  arrears  were  not 
treated  as  lost  ones  by  IMrs.  Fleming,  who,  without  knowing 
it,  possessed  one  main  secret  for  mastering  the  custodians  of 
credit.  She  had  a  considerate  remembrance  and  regard  for 
the  most  distant  of  her  debts,  so  that  she  seemed  to  be  only 
always  a  little  late,  and  exceptionally  wrong-headed  in  theory. 
Wrexby,  therefore,  acquiesced  in  helping  to  build  up  her 
children  to  stoutness,  and  but  for  the  blindness  of  all  people, 
save  artists,  poets,  novelists,  to  the  grandeur  of  their  own 
creations,  the  inhabitants  of  this  Kentish  village  might  have 
had  an  enjoyable  pride  in  the  beauty  and  robust  grace  of  the 
young  girls— fair-haired,  black-haired  girls,  a  kindred  con- 
trast, like  fire  and  smoke,  to  look  upon.  In  stature,  in 
bearing,  and  in  expression,  they  were,  if  1  may  adopt  the 
eloquent  modern  manner  of  eulogy,  strikingly  above  their 
class.  They  carried  erect  shoulders,  like  creatures  not 
ashamed  of  showing  a  merely  animal  pride,  -which  is  ne  er 

B  2 


A  HnODA  FLEMING. 

qnite  apart  from  the  pride  of  developed  beauty.  They  •were 
as  upright  as  Oriental  erirls,  whose  heads  are  nobly  poised 
from  cai-rying  the  ])itcher  to  the  well.  Daik  Rlioda  might 
have  pa.s.sed  for  Jiaclul,  and  IJaldia  called  lier  Rachel.  Tliey 
tos.sed  one  another  their  mutual  compliments,  drawn  from  the 
chief  book  of  their  rta<ling.  Queen  of  8heba  was  Dahlia's 
title.  No  master  of  callisthenics  could  have  set  thini  up 
better  than  their  mother's  receipt  for  making  good  blood, 
coiiib-.ned  with  a  certain  liarmony  of  their  systems,  had  done; 
norcould  a  sc'ioolmistresshavetaiight  them  corrccter  speaking. 
The  characteristic  of  girls  having  a  disposition  to  rise,  is  to  be 
cravingly  mimetic  ;  and  they  remembered,  and  crooned  over, 
till  by  degTCus  they  adopted  the  phi-ases  and  manner  of 
speech  of  highly  grammatical  people,  such  as  tlie  rector  and 
his  lady,  and  of  people  in  story  books,  especially  of  the 
courtly  Flench  fairy-books,  wheiein  the  princes  talk  in 
periods  as  sweetly  rounded  as  are  their  silken  calves  ;  nothing 
less  than  angelically,  so  as  to  be  a  model  to  ordinary  men. 
The  idea  of  lov^e  upon  the  lips  of  ordinary  men,  piovokeil 
Dahlia's  irony;  and  the  youths  of  Wrexby  and  Fenhnrsthad 
no  chance  against  her  secret  Pi-ince  Florizels.  Them  she 
endowed  with  no  pastoral  qualities  ;  on  the  contrary,  she 
conceived  that  such  pui'e  young  gentlemen  were  only  to  be 
seen,  and  perhaps  met,  in  the  great  and  mystic  City  of 
London.  Naturally,  the  girls  dreamed  of  London.  To 
educate  themselves,  they  copied  out  whole  pages  of  a  book 
called  the  "  Field  of  Mars,"  which  was  next  to  the  family 
Bible  in  size  among  the  volumes  of  the  farmer's  small  library. 
The  deeds  of  the  heroes  of  this  book,  and  the  talk  of  the  fairy 
princes,  were  assimilated  in  their  minds ;  and  as  they  looked 
around  them  upon  millers',  farmeis',  maltsters',  and  trades- 
men's sons,  the  thought  of  what  manner  of  youth  would 
propi  se  -to  marry  them  became  a  precocious  tribulation. 
Rhoda,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  was  distracted  by  it,  owing  to 
her  sister's  habit  of  masking  her  own  dismal  internal  fore- 
1  odings  on  the  subject,  under  the  guise  of  a  settled  anxiety 
conci'rning  her  sad  chance.  In  dress,  the  wife  of  the  rector 
of  Wrexby  was  their  model.  There  came  once  to  Squire 
Blancove's  unoccupied  pew  a  dazzling  vision  of  a  fair  lady. 
They  heard  that  she  was  a  cousin  of  his  third  wife,  and  a 
widow,  Mrs.  Lovell  by  namo.     They  looked  at  her  all  through 


THE  KENTISH  FAMILY.  5 

the  service,  and  tte  lady  certainly  looked  at  them  in  return  ; 
nor  could  they,  with  any  distinctness,  imagine  why,  hut  the 
look  dwelt  long  in  their  hearts,  and  often  afterward,  when 
Dahlia,  upon  taking  her  seat  in  church,  shut  her  eyes,  accord- 
ing to  custom,  she  strove  to  conjure  up  the  image  of  herself, 
as  she  had  appeaj^ed  to  the  beautiful  woman  in  the  dress  of 
grey-shot  silk,  with  violet  mantle  and  green  bonnet,  rose- 
trimmed  ;  and  the  picture  she  conceived  was  the  one  she 
knew  herself  by,  for  many  ensuing  years. 

Mrs.  Fleming  fought  her  battle  with  a  heart  worthy  of  her 
coimtrywornen,  and  with  as  much  success  as  the  burden  of  a 
despondent   husband   would   allow    to  her.     William  John 
Fleming  was  simply  a  poor  farmer,  for  whom  the  wheels  of 
the  world  went  too  fast :  a  big  man,  appearing  to  be  difficult 
to  kill,  though  deeply  smitten.     His  cheeks  bloomed  in.  spite 
of  lines  and  stains,  and  his  large,  quietly-dilated,  brown  ox- 
eyes,  that  never  gave  out  a  meaning,  seldom  showed  as  if 
they  had  taken  one  from  what  they  saw.     Until   his  wife 
was  lost  to  him,  he  believed  that  he  had  a  mighty  grievance 
against  her ;  but  as  he  was  not  wordy,  and  was  by  nature 
kind,  it  was  her  comfort  to  die  and  not  to  know  it.     This 
grievance  was  rooted  in  the  idea  that  she  was  ruinously 
extravagant.     The  sight  of  the  plentiful  table  was  sore  to 
him  ;  the  hungry  mouths,  though  he  grudged  to  his  oiispring 
nothing  that  he  could  pay  for,  were  an  afflicting  prospect. 
"  Plump  'em  up,  and  make  'em  dainty,"  he  advanced  in  con- 
travention of  his  wife's  talk  of  bread  and  beef.     But  he  did 
not  complain.     If  it  came  to  an  argument,  the  farmer  sidled 
into  a  secure  coi-ner  of  prophecy,  and  bade  his  wife  to  see 
what  would  come  of  having  dainty  children.     He  could  not 
deny  that  bread  and  beef  made  blood,  and  were  cheaper  than 
the  port- wine  which  doctors  were  in  the  habit  of  ordering 
for  this  and  that  delicate  person  in  the  neighbourhood ;  so  he 
was  compelled  to  have  recourse  to  secret  discontent.     The 
attention,  the  time,  and  the  trifles  of  money  shed  upon_  the 
flower-garden,    were    hardships    easier   to   bear.      He   liked 
flowers,  and  he  liked  to  hear  the  praise  of  his  wife's  horti- 
cultural skill.      The  garden  was  a  distinguishing  thing  to 
the  farm,   and  when  on  a  Sunday   he  walked  home  from 
church  among  full  June  roses,  he  felt  the  odour  of  them  to 
be  so  like  his  imagined  sensations  of  prosperity,  that  the 
deception  was  worth  its  cost.     Yet  the  garden  in  its  bloom 


6  EnODA  FLEMINO. 

revived  a  cruel  blow.  His  wife  bad  once  wounded  his 
vanity.  Tbe  massed  vanity  of  a  silent  man,  when  it  does 
take  a  wound,  desires  a  plant's  vengeance;  but  as  one  can 
scarcely  seek  to  enjoy  that  monstrous  gratification  when 
one's  wife  is  the  offender,  the  farmer  escaped  from  his 
dilemma  by  going  apart  into  a  turnip-fiehl,  and  swearing, 
with  his  fist  outstretched,  never  to  forget  it.  His  wife  had 
asked  him,  seeing  that  the  garden  flourished  and  the  farm 
decayed,  to  yield  the  labour  of  the  farm  to  the  garden ;  in 
fact,  to  turn  nurseryman  under  his  wife's  direction.  The 
woman  could  not  see  that  her  garden  drained  the  farm 
already,  distracted  the  farm,  and  most  evidently  impo- 
verished him.  She  could  not  understand  that,  in  permitting 
her,  while  he  sweated  fruitlessly,  to  give  herself  up  to  the 
occupation  of  a  lady,  he  had  followed  the  promptings  cf  bis 
native  kindness,  and  certainly  not  of  his  native  wisdom. 
That  she  should  deem  herself  'best  man'  of  the  two,  and 
suggest  his  stamping  his  name  to  such  an  opinion  before  the 
world,  was  an  outrage. 

Mrs.  Fleming  was  failing  in  health.  On  that  plea,  with 
the  solemnity  suited  to  the  autumn  of  her  allotted  days,  she 
persuaded  her  husband  to  advertise  for  an  assistant,  who 
would  pay  a  small  sum  of  money  to  learn  sound  farming, 
and  hear  arguments  in  favour  of  the  Corn  Laws.  To  please 
her,  he  threw  seven  shillings  away  upon  an  advertisement, 
and  laughed  when  the  advertisement  was  answered,  remark- 
ing that  he  doubted  much  whether  good  would  come  of 
dealings  with  strangers.  A  young  man,  calling  himself 
Robert  Armstrong,  underwent  a  presentation  to  the  family. 
He  paid  the  stipulated  sum,  and  was  soon  enrolled  as  one  of 
them.  He  was  of  a  guardsman's  height  and  a  cricketer's 
suppleness,  a  drinker  of  water,  and  apparently  the  victim  of 
a  dislike  of  his  species;  for  he  spoke  of  the  great  night- 
lighted  city  with  a  horror  that  did  not  seem  to  be  an 
estimable  point  in  him,  as  judged  by  a  pair  of  damsels  for 
whom  the  mysterious  metropolis  flew  with  fiery  fringes 
through  dark  space,  in  their  dreams.  In  other  respects,  the 
stranger  was  well  thought  of,  as  being  handsome  and  sedate. 
He  talked  fondly  of  one  friend  that  he  had,  an  officer  in  the 
army,  which  was  considered  pardonably  vain.  He  did  not 
reach  to  the  ideal  of  his  sex  which  had  been  formed  by  the 
sisters;  ba   Mrs.  Fleming,  trusting  to  her  divination  of  hia 


THE  KENTISH  FAMILY.  7 

sex's  character,  -wliispered  a  mother's  word  about  him  to  her 
husband  a  little  while  before  her  death. 

It  was  her  praj-er  to  heaven  that  she  might  save  a  doctor's 
bill.  She  died,  without  lingering  illness,  in  her  own  beloved 
month  of  June ;  the  roses  of  her  tending  at  the  open  window, 
and  a  soft  breath  floating  up  to  her  from  the  garden.  On 
the  foregoing  May-day,  she  had  sat  on  the  green  that  fronted 
the  iron  gateway,  when  Dahlia  and  Rhoda  dressed  the 
children  of  the  village  in  garlands,  and  crowned  the  fairest 
little  one  queen  of  May :  a  sight  that  revived  in  Mrs. 
Fleming's  recollection  the  time  of  her  own  eldest  and  fairest 
taking  homage,  shy  in  her  white  smock  and  light  thick 
curls.  The  gathering  was  large,  and  the  day  was  of  the  old 
nature  of  May,  before  tyrannous  East-winds  had  captured  it 
and  spoiled  its  consecration.  The  mill-stream  of  the  neigh- 
bouring mill  ran  blue  amoiig  the  broad  green  pastures  ;  the 
air  smelt  of  cream-bowls  and  wheaten  loaves;  the  firs  on 
the  beacon-ridge,  far  Southward,  over  Fenhurst  and  Helm. 
villages,  were  transported  nearer  to  see  the  show,  and  stood 
like  friends  anxious  to  i^enew  acquaintance.  Dahlia  and 
Rhoda  taught  the  children  to  perceive  how  they  resembled 
bent  old  beggarmen.  The  two  stone-pines  in  the  miller's 
grounds  were  likened  by  them  to  Adam  and  Eve  turning 
away  from  the  blaze  of  Paradise ;  and  the  saying  of  one 
receptive  child,  that  they  had  nothing  but  hair  on,  made  the 
illustration  undying  both  to  Dahlia  and  Rhoda.  The  magic 
of  the  weather  brought  numerous  butterflies  afield,  and  one 
fiddler,  to  whose  tuning  the  little  women  danced;  others 
closer  upon  womanhood  would  have  danced  likewise,  if  the 
sisters  had  taken  partners ;  but  Dahlia  was  restrained  by 
the  sudden  consciousness  that  she  was  under  the  immediate 
observation  of  two  manifestly  London  gentlemen,  and  she 
declined  to  be  led  forth  by  Robert  Armstrong.  The  in- 
truders were  youths  of  good  countenance,  known  to  be  the 
son  and  the  nepliew  of  Squire  Blancove  of  Wrexby  Hall. 
They  remained  for  some  time  watching  the  scene,  and 
destroyed  Dahlia's  single-mindedness.  Like  many  days  of 
gaiety,  the  Gods  consenting,  this  one  had  its  human  shadow. 
There  appeared  on  the  borders  of  the  festivity  a  young 
woman,  the  daughter  of  a  Wrexby  cottager,  who  had  left 
her  home  and  but  lately  returned  to  it,  with  a  spotted  nanie. 
No  one  addressed  her,  and  she  stood  humbly  apart.     Dahlia, 


8  KnODA  FLEMING. 

seeing  tLat  every  one  moved  away  from  her,  whispering  with 
satisfied  noddings,  wished  to  draw  her  in  among  the  groups. 
She  nu'iitioiicd  the  name  of  Maiy  Burt  to  lier  father,  sup- 
posing that  so  kind  a  man  would  not  fail  to  sanction  her 
going  up  to  the  neglected  young  woman.  To  her  surprise, 
her  father  became  violently  enraged,  and  uttered  a  stern 
prohibition,  speaking  a  word  that  stained  her  cheeks.  Rhoda 
was  by  her  side,  and  she  wilfully,  without  asking  leave,  went 
straight  over  to  ^lary,  and  stood  with  her  under  the  shadow 
of  the  Adam  and  Eve,  until  the  farmer  sent  a  messenger  to 
say  that  he  was  about  to  enter  the  house.  Her  punishment 
for  the  act  of  sinfulness  was  a  week  of  severe  silence ;  and 
the  farmer  would  have  kept  her  to  it  longer,  but  for  her 
mother's  ominously  gi-owing  weakness.  The  sisters  were 
strangely  overclouded  by  this  incident.  They  could  not 
fathom  the  meaning  of  their  father's  unkindncss,  coarseness, 
and  indignation.  Why,  and  why  ?  they  asked  one  another, 
blankly.  The  Scriptures  were  harsh  in  one  part,  but  was 
the  teaching  to  continue  so  after  tlie  Atonement  ?  By  degrees 
they  came  to  reflect,  and  not  in  a  mild  spirit,  that  the  kindest 
of  men  can  be  cruel,  and  will  forget  their  Chiiijtianity  toward, 
offending  and  repentant  women. 


CHAPTER  It 

QUEEN    ANNE's    FARM. 


Mks.  Fleming  had  a  brother  in  London,  who  had  run  away 
from  his  Kentish  home  when  a  small  boy,  and  found  refuge 
at  a  Bank.  The  position  of  Anthony  Hacklnit  in  that  cele- 
brated establishment,  and  the  degree  of  influence  exercised 
by  him  there,  were  things  unknown  ;  but  he  liad  stuck  to 
the  Bank  for  a  great  number  of  years,  and  he  had  once  con- 
fessed to  his  sister  that  he  was  not  a  beggar.  Upon  these 
joint  facts  the  farmer  speculated,  deducing  from  them  that 
a  man  in  a  London  Bank,  holding  money  of  his  own,   must 


QTTEEN  ANNE'S  PAEM.  9 

have  learnt  the  ways  of  turning  it  over — fanning  golden 
ground,  as  it  "were ;  consequently,  that  amount  must  now 
have  increased  to  a  very  considerable  sum.  You  ask.  What 
amount  ?  But  one  who  sits  brooding  upon  a  pair  of  facts 
for  years,  with  the  imperturbable  gravity  of  creation  upon 
chaos,  will  be  as  successful  in  evoking  the  concrete  from  the 
abstract.  The  farmer  saw  round  figures  among  the  posses- 
sions of  the  family,  and  he  assisted  mentally  in  this  money- 
turning  of  Anthony's,  counted  his  gains  for  him,  disposed 
his  risks,  and  eyed  the  pile  of  visionary  gold  with  an  interest 
so  remote,  that  he  was  almost  correct  in  calling  it  disin- 
terested. The  brothers-in-law  had  a  mutual  plea  of  expense 
that  kept  them  separate.  When  Anthony  refused,  on  peti- 
tion, to  advance  one  hundred  pounds  to  the  farmer,  there 
was  ill  blood  to  divide  them.  Queen  Anne's  Farm  missed 
the  flourishing  point  by  one  hundred  pounds  exactly.  With 
that  addition  to  its  exchequer,  it  would  have  made  head 
against  its  old  enemy,  Taxation,  and  started  rejuvenescent. 
But  the  Radicals  were  in  power  to  legislate  and  crush 
agriculture,  and  "  I've  got  a  miser  for  my  brother-in-law," 
said  the  farmer.  Alas  !  the  hundred  pounds  to  back  him, 
he  could  have  sowed  what  he  pleased,  and  when  it  pleased 
him,  partially  defying  the  capricious  clouds  and  their  trea- 
sures, and  playing  tunefully  upon  his  land,  his  own  land. 
Instead  of  which,  and  Avhile  too  keenly  awai-e  that  the  one 
hundred  Avould  have  made  excesses  in  any  direction  tributary 
to  his  pocket,  the  poor  man  groaned  at  continuous  falls  of 
moisture,  and  when  rain  was  prayed  for  in  church,  he  had  to 
be  down  on  his  knees,  praying  heartily  with  the  rest  of  the 
congregation.  It  was  done,  and  bitter  reproaches  were  cast 
npon  Anthony  for  the  enforced  necessity  to  do  it. 

On  the  occasion  of  his  sister's  death,  Anthony  informed 
his  bereaved  brother-in-law  that  he  could  not  come  down  to 
follow  the  hearse  as  a  mourner.  "  My  place  is  one  of  great 
trust,"  he  said,  "  and  I  cannot  be  spared."  He  offered, 
however,  voluntarily  to  pay  half  the  expenses  of  the  funeral, 
stating  the  limit  of  the  cost.  It  is  unfair  to  sound  any 
man's  springs  of  action  critically  while  he  is  being  tried  by  a 
sorrow ;  and  the  farmer's  angr}^  rejection  of  Anthony's  offer 
of  aid  must  pass.  He  remarked  in  his  letter  of  reply,  that 
liis  wife's  funeral  should  cost  no  less  than  he  chose  to  expend 


10  EIIODA  FLEMING. 

on  it.  Ho  breathed  indignant  fumes  against  "  interferences." 
He  desired  Anthony  to  know  that  ho  also  was  "  not  a 
beggar,"  and  that  he  wouhl  not  bo  treated  as  one.  Tlio 
letter  .showed  a  solid  yeoman's  list.  Farmer  Fleming  told 
his  chums,  and  the  shopkeeper  of  Wrexby,  with  wlujm  he 
came  into  converse,  that  he  would  honour  his  dead  wife  up 
to  liis  last  penny.  Some  month  or  so  afterward  it  Avas 
generally  conjectured  that  he  had  kept  his  word. 

Anthony's  rejoinder  was  characterized  by  a  marked 
humility.  He  exj)ressed  contrition  for  the  farmer's  mis- 
understanding of  his  motives.  His  fathomless  conscience 
had  plainly  been  reached.  He  wrote  again,  without  waiting 
for  an  ansAver,  speaking  of  the  Funds  indeed,  but  only  to 
pronounce  them  worldly  things,  and  hoping  that  they  all 
might  meet  in  heaven,  where  brotherly  love,  as  well  as 
money,  was  ready  made,  and  not  always  in  the  next  street. 
A  hint  occurred  that  it  would  be  a  gratification  to  him  to 
be  invited  down,  whether  he  could  come  or  no  ;  for  holidays 
were  expensive,  and  journeys  by  rail  had  to  be  thought  over 
before  they  wei-e  undertaken  ;  and  when  you  ai-o  away  from 
your  post,  you  never  knew  who  might  be  supplanting  you. 
He  did  not  promise  that  he  could  come,  but  frankly  stated 
his  susceptibility  to  the  friendliness  of  an  invitation.  Tho 
feeling  indulged  by  Farmer  Fleming  in  refusing  to  notice 
Anthony's  advance  toward  a  reconciliation,  was,  on  the  whole, 
not  creditable  to  him.  Spite  is  more  often  fattened  than 
propitiated  by  penitence.  He  may  have  thought  besides 
(policy  not  being  always  a  vacant  space  in  revengeful  acts) 
that  Anthony  was  capable  of  something  stronger  and  warmer, 
now  that  his  humanity  had  been  aroused.  The  speculation 
is  commonly  perilous  ;  but  Farmer  Fleming  had  the  despera- 
tion of  a  man  who  has  run  slightly  into  debt,  and  has  heard 
the  first  din  of  dunning,  which  to  the  unaccustomed  ima- 
gination is  fearful  as  bankruptcy  (shorn  of  the  horror  of  the 
word).  And,  moreover,  it  was  so  wonderful  to  find  Anthony 
displaying  humanity  at  all,  that  anything  might  be  expected 
of  him.  "  Let's  see  what  he  will  do,"  thought  tho  farmer  in 
an  interval  of  his  wrath  ;  and  the  wrath  is  very  new  which 
has  none  of  these  cool  intervals.  The  passions,  do  but  watch 
them,  are  all  more  or  less  intei'mittent. 

As  it  chanced,  he  acted  sagaciously,  for  Anthony  at  last 
wrote  to  say  that  his  home  in  London  was  cheerless,  and 


QUEEN  ANNE'S  FAEM.  1 1 

that  he  intended  to  move  into  fresli   and  airier  lodgings, 
where  the  presence  of  a  discreet  young  housekeeper,  who 
might  wish  to  see  London,  and  make  acquaintance  with  the 
world,  would  be  agTeeable  to  him.     His  project  was  that 
one  of  his  nieces  should  fill  this  office,  and  he  requested  his 
brother-in-law  to  reflect  on  it,  and  to  think  of  him  as  of  a 
friend  of  the  family,  now  and  in  the  time  to  come.     Anthony- 
spoke  of  the  seductions  of  London  quite  unctuously.     Who 
could  imagine  this  to  be  the  letter  of  an  old  crabbed  miser  ? 
"  Tell  her,"  he  said,  "  there's  fruit  at  stalls  at  every  street- 
corner  all  the  year  through — oysters  and  whelks,  if  she  likes 
— winkles,  lots  of  pictures  in  shops — a  sight  of  muslin  and 
silks,  and  rides  on  omnibuses — bands  of  all  sorts,  and  now 
and  then  we  can  take  a  walk  to  see  the  military  on  horse- 
back, if  she's  for  soldiers."     Indeed,  he  joked  quite  comically 
in  speaking  of  the  famous  horse-guards — warriors  who  sit 
on  their  horses  to  be  looked  at,  and  do  not  mind  it,  because 
they  are  trained  so  thoroughly.     "  Horse-guards  blue,  and 
horse-guards  red,"  he  wrote — "  the  blue  only  want  boiling." 
There  is  reason  to  suppose  that  his  disrespectful  joke  was 
not  original  in  him,  but  it  displayed  his  character  in  a  fresh 
light.     Of  course,  if  either  of  the  girls  was  to  go,  Dahlia  was 
the  person.     The  farmer  commenced  his  usual  process  of 
sitting  upon  the  idea.     That  it  would  be  policy  to  attach 
one  of  the  family  to  this   chirping  old  miser,  he  thought 
incontestable.     On  the  other  hand,  he  had  a  di-ead  of  Lon- 
don, and  Dahlia  was  surpassingly  fair.     He  put  the  case  to 
Eobert,  in  remembrance  of  what  his  wife  had  spoken,  hoping 
that  Robert  would   amorously    stop   his  painful   eiforts  to 
think  fast  enough  for  the  occasion.     Robert,  however,  had 
nothing  to  say,  and  seemed  willing  to  let  Dahlia  depart. 
The  only  opponents  to  the  plan  were  Mrs.  Sumfit,  a  kindly, 
humble  relative  of  the  farmer's,  widowed  out  of    Sussex, 
very  loving  and  fat ;  the  cook  to  the  household,  whose  waist 
was  dimly  indicated  by  her  apron-string ;  and,  to  aid  her 
outcries,    the  silently-protesting  Master    Gammon,    an   old 
man  with  the  cast   of   eye   of   an  antediluvian  lizard,  the 
slowest  old  man  of  his  time — a  sort  of  foreman  of  the  farm 
before  Robert  had  come  to  take  mattei-s  in  hand,  and  thrust 
both  him   and  his  master  into   the   background.      Master 
Gammon  remarked  emphatically,  once  and  for  all,  that  "he 
never  had  much  opinion  of   London."      As   he  had  never 


12  EHODA  FLEMING. 

visited  London,  his  opinion  was  considered  the  less  weighty, 
but,  as  he  advanced  no  fui'ther  speech,  the  sins  and  back- 
sliJings  of  the  metropolis  were  strongly  brought  to  mind  by 
his  ciJiidemnatory  uttcj'ance.  Policy  and  Dahlia's  entreaties 
at  last  prevailed  with  the  fanner,  and  so  the  fair  girl  went 
up  to  the  great  city. 

After  mouths  of  a  division  that  was  like  the  division  of 
her  living  veins,  and  when  the  comfort  of  letters  was  getting 
cold,  Ilhoda  having  previously  pledged  hci-self  to  secrecy, 
though  she  could  not  guess  why  it  was  commanded,  received 
a  miniature  portrait  of  Dahlia,  so  beautiful  that  her  envy  of 
London  for  holding  her  sister  away  from  her,  melted  in 
gratitude.  She  had  permission  to  keep  the  portrait  a  week ; 
it  was  impossible  to  forbear  from  showing  it  to  Mrs.  Sumfit, 
who  peeped  in  awe,  and  that  emotion  subsiding,  shed  tears 
abundantly.  Why  it  was  to  be  kept  secret,  they  failed  to 
inquire;  the  mysteiy  was  possibly  not  without  its  deliylits 
to  them.  Tears  were  shed  again  when  the  portrait  had  to 
be  packed  up  and  despatched.  Rhoda  lived  on  abashed  by 
the  adorable  new  refinement  of  Dahlia's  features,  and  her 
heart  yearned  to  her  uncle  for  so  caring  to  decorate  the 
lovely  face. 

One  day  Rhoda  was  at  her  bed-i-oom  window,  on  the  point 
of  descending  to  encounter  the  daily  dumj)ling,  which  was 
the  principal  and  the  unvarying  item  of  the  midday  meal 
of  the  house,  when  she  beheld  a  stranger  trying  to  turn  the 
handle  of  the  iron  gate.  Her  heart  thumped.  She  divined 
correctly  that  it  was  her  uncle.  Dahlia  had  now  been  absent 
for  very  many  months,  and  Rhoda's  growing  fretfulness 
sprung  the  conviction  in  her  mind  that  something  closer 
than  letters  must  soon  be  coming.  She  ran  downstairs,  and 
along  the  gravel-path.  He  was  a  little  man,  square-built, 
and  looking  as  if  he  had  worn  to  toughness  ;  with  an  evident 
Sunday  suit  on :  black,  and  black  gloves,  though  the  day 
was  only  antecedent  to  Sunday. 

"  Let  me  help  you,  sir,"  she  said,  and  her  hands  came  in 
contact  with  his,  and  were  squeezed. 

"  How  is  my  sister  ?"  She  had  no  longer  any  fear  in 
asking, 

"  Now,  you  let  me  through,  first,"  he  rci>lied,  imitating  an 
arbitrary  juvenile.  "  You're  as  tight  locked  in  as  if  you 
was  in  di'ead  of  all  the  thieves  of  London.     You  ain't  afraid 


QUEEN  ANNE's  farm.  13 

o'  me,  miss  ?  I'm  not  tlie  party  generally  oiatside  of  a  for- 
tification ;  I  ain  t,  I  can  assure  you.  I'm  a  defence  party, 
and  a  reg'lar  lion  when  I've  got  tlie  law  backing  me." 

He  spoke  in  a  queer,  wheezy  voice,  like  a  cracked  flute, 
combined  with  the  efl'ect  of  an  ill-resined  fiddle-bow. 

"  You  are  in  the  garden  of  Queen  Anne's  Farm,"  said 
Rhoda. 

"  And  you're  my  pretty  little  niece,  are  you  ?  '  the  darkie 
lass,'  as  your  father  says.  '  Little,'  says  I ;  why,  you  needn't 
be  ashamed  to  stand  beside  a  grenadier.  Trust  the  country 
for  growing  fine  gals." 

"  Tou  are  my  uncle,  then  ?"  said  Rhoda.  "  Tell  me  how 
my  sister  is.     Is  she  well  ?     Is  she  quite  happy  ?" 

"  Dahly  ?"  returned  old  Anthony,  slowly. 

"Yes,  yes;  my  sister!"  Rhoda  looked  at  him  with  dis- 
tressful easjerness. 

"  Now,  don't  you  be  uneasy  about  your  sister  Dahly," 
Old  Anthony,  as  he  spoke,  fixed  his  small  brown  eyes  on. 
the  girl,  and  seemed  immediately  to  have  departed  far  away 
in  speculation.     A  question  recalled  him. 

"  Is  her  health  good  ?" 

"Ay;  stomach's  good,  head's  good,  lungs,  brain,  what 
not,  all  arood.     She's  a  bit  giddy,  that's  all." 

"  In  h'er  head  ?" 

"Ay;  and  on  her  pins.  IS^ever  you  mind.  Yon  look  a 
steady  one,  my  dear.     I  shall  take  to  you,  I  think." 

"  But  my  sister "  Rhoda  was  saying,  when  the  farmer 

came  out,  and  sent  a  greeting  from  the  threshold : 

"  Brother  Tony !" 

"  Here  he  is,  brother  William  John." 

"  Surely,  and  so  he  is,  at  last."  The  farmer  walked  up  to 
him  with  his  hand  out. 

"  And  it  ain't  too  late,  I  hope.     Eh  ?" 

"  It's  never  too  late — to  mend,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  Eh  ?  not  my  manners,  eh  ?"  Anthony  struggled  to  keep 
np  the  ball ;  and  in  this  way  they  got  over  the  confusion  of 
the  meeting  after  many  years  and  some  differences. 

"  Made  acquaintance  with  Rhoda,  I  see,"  said  the  farmer, 
as  they  turned  to  go  in. 

"  The  '  darkie  lass'  you  write  of.  She's  like  a  coal  nigh  a 
candle.  She  looks,  as  you'd  say,  '  t'other  side  of  her  sister,* 
Yes,  we've  had  a  talk." 


14  EnODA  PLEMINO. 

"  Just  in  time  for  dinnor,  brotlicr  Tony.  "Wo  ain't  j^ot 
mnch  to  offer,  but  what  there  is,  is  at  your  service.  Step 
aside  with  me." 

The  fai-nier  got  Anthony  out  of  hearing  a  moment,  ques- 
tioned, and  was  answered :  after  whieli  he  looked  less 
anxious,  but  a  trifle  perplexed,  and  nodded  his  head  as 
Anthony  occasionally  lifted  his,  to  enforce  certain  points  in 
some  halting  explanation.  You  Avould  have  said  that  a 
debtor  was  humbly  putting  his  case  in  his  creditor's  ear,  and 
could  only  now  and  then  summon  courage  to  meet  the  cen- 
sorious eyes.  They  went  in  to  Mrs.  Sumfit's  shout  that  the 
dumplings  were  out  of  the  pot :  old  Anthony  bowed  upon 
he  announcement  of  his  name,  and  all  took  seats.  But  it 
was  not  the  same  sort  of  dinner-hour  as  that  which  the 
inhabitants  of  the  house  were  accustomed  to  ;  there  was 
conversation. 

The  farmer  asked  Anthony  by  what  conveyance  he  had 
come.  Anthony  shyly,  but  not  without  evident  self-appro- 
bation, related  how,  having  come  by  the  train,  he  got  into 
conversation  with  the  driver  of  a  fly  at  a  station,  who 
advised  him  of  a  cart  that  would  be  passing  near  Wrexby. 
For  threepennyAvoi'th  of  beer,  he  had  got  a  fi-iendly  intro- 
duction to  the  carman,  who  took  him  within  two  miles  of 
the  farm  for  one  shilling,  a  distance  of  fifteen  miles.  That 
was  pretty  good ! 

"  Home  pork,  brother  Tony,"  said  the  farmer,  approv- 
ingly- 

"  And  home-made  bread,  too,  brother  William  John,"  said 
Anthony,  becoming  brisk. 

"  Ay,  and  the  beer,  such  as  it  is."  The  farmer  di'ank  and 
sighed. 

Anthony  tried  the  beer,  remarking — "  That's  good  beer ; 
it  don't  cost  much." 

"  It  ain't  adulterated.  By  what  I  read  of  your  London 
beer,  this  stuff's  not  so  bad,  if  you  bear  in  mind  it's  pure. 
Pui-e's  my  motto.     '  Pure,  though  poor  !'  " 

"  Up  there,  yon  pay  for  rank  poison,"  said  Anthony. 
"  So,  what  do  I  do  ?  I  drink  water  and  thank'em,  that's  wise." 

"  Saves  stomach  and  purse."  The  farmer  put  a  little 
stress  on  "  purse." 

"  Yes,  I  calculate  I  save  threepence  a  day  in  beer  alone,** 
>aid  Anthony. 


QUEEN  ANNe's  FAEM.  15 

"  Three  times  seven's  twenty-one,  ain't  it  ?" 

Mr.  Fleming  said  this,  and  let  out  his  elbow  in  a  small 
perplexity,  as  Anthony  took  him  up  : — "  And  fifty-two  times 
twenty- one  ?" 

"  Well,  that's,  that's — how  much  is  that,  Mas'  Gammon  ?" 
the  farmer  asked  in  a  bellow. 

Master  Gammon  was  laboriously  and  steadily  engaged  in 
tightening  himself  with  dumpling.  He  relaxed  his  exertions 
sufficiently  to  take  this  new  burden  on  his  brain,  and  imme- 
diately cast  it  off. 

"  Ah  never  thinks  when  I  feeds — Ah  was  al'ays  a  bad 
hand  at  'counts.     Gi'es  it  up." 

"Why,  you're  like  a  horse  that  never  was  rode!  Try 
again,  old  man,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  If  I  drags  a  cart,"  Master  Gammon  replied,  "  that  ain't 
no  reason  why  I  should  leap  a  gate." 

The  farmer  felt  that  he  was  worsted  as  regarded  the  illus- 
tration, and  with  a  bit  of  the  boy's  fear  of  the  pedagogue,  he 
fought  Anthony  ofi  by  still  pressing  the  arithmetical  problem 
upon  Master  Gammon,  until  the  old  man,  goaded  to  exas- 
peration, rolled  out  thunderingly — 

"  If  I  works  f  er  ye,  that  ain  t  no  reason  why  I  should  think 
fer  ye,"  which  caused  him  to  be  left  in  peace. 

"Eh,  Kobert  ?"  the  farmer  transferred  the  question; 
"  Come !  what  is  it  ?" 

Robert  begged  a  minute's  delay,  while  Anthony  watched 
him  with  hawk  eyes. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is — it's  pounds,"  said  Robert. 

This  tickled  Anthony,  who  let  him  escape,  crying: 
"  Capital!  Pounds  it  is  in  your  pocket,  sir,  and  you  hit  that 
neatly,  I  will  say.  Let  it  be  five.  Tou  out  with  your  five  at 
interest,  compound  interest ;  soon  comes  another  five  ;  treat 
it  the  same  :  in  ten  years — eh  ?  and  then  you  get  into  figures; 
you  swim  in  figtu'es  !" 

"  I  should  think  you  did  !"  said  the  farmer,  winking  slyly. 

Anthony  caught  the  smile,  hesitated  and  looked  shrewd, 
and  then  covei-ed  his  confusion  by  holding  his  plate  to  Mrs. 
Sumfit  for  a  help.  The  manifest  evasion  and  mute  declara- 
tion that  dumpling  said  "mum"  on  that  head,  gave  the 
farmer  a  quiet  glow.  _   ^     _    ^ 

"  When  you  are  ready  to  tell  me  all  about  my  darHn'^  sir, 
Mrs.  Sumfit  suggested,  coaxingly. 


16  EHODA  PLEMINQ. 

"  After  dinner,  mother — after  dinner,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  And  we're  waitiii,'  are  we,  till  them  dumpling's  is 
finished  ?"  she  exclaimed,  piteously,  with  a  glance  at  Master 
Gammon's  ])hite. 

"  After  dinner  we'll  have  a  talk,  mother." 

Mrs.  Sum  tit  feared  from  this  delay  that  there  was  queer 
news  to  be  told  of  Dahlia's  temper;  but  she  longed  for  the 
narrative  no  whit  the  less,  and  again  cast  a  sad  eye  on  the 
leisurely  proceedings  of  ^Master  Gammon.  The  veteran  was 
still  calmly  tightening.  His  fork  was  on  end,  with  a  vast 
mouthful  impaled  on  the  prongs.  Master  Gammon,  a 
thoughtful  eater,  was  always  last  at  the  meal,  and  a  latent, 
deep-lying  irritation  at  Mrs.  Sumfit  for  her  fidgetiness, 
day  after  day,  toward  the  finish  of  the  dish,  added  a  i-elish 
to  his  engulphing  of  the  monstrous  morsel.  He  looked  at 
her  steadily,  like  an  ox  of  the  fields,  and  consumed  it,  and 
then  holding  his  plato  out,  in  a  remorseless  way,  said,  "You 
make  'em  so  good,  marm." 

Mrs.  Sumiit,  fretted  as  she  was,  was  not  impervious  to 
the  sound  sense  of  the  remark,  as  well  as  to  the  compliment. 

"  I  don't  want  to  hurry  you,  Mas'  Gammon,"  she  said ; 
"  Lord  knows,  I  like  to  see  you  and  everybody  eat  his  full 
and  be  thankful;  but,  all  about  my  Dahly  waitin', — I  feel 
pricked  wi'  a  pin  all  over,  I  do ;  and  there's  my  blessed  in. 
London,"  she  answered,  "  and  we  knowin'  nothin'  of  her,  and 
one  close  by  to  tell  me  !  I  never  did  feel  what  slow  things 
dumplin's  was,  afore  now  !" 

The  kettle  simmered  gently  on  the  hob.  Every  other 
knife  and  fork  was  silent  ;  so  was  every  tongue.  Master 
Gammon  ate  and  the  kettle  hummed.  Twice  Mrs.  Sumfit 
sounded  a  despairing,  "Oh,  dear  me!"  but  it  was  useless. 
No  human  power  had  ever  yet  driven  Master  Gammon  to  a 
demonstration  of  haste  or  to  any  acceleration  of  the  pace  he 
had  chosen  for  himself.  At  last,  she  was  not  to  be  restrained 
from  crying  out,  almost  teax-f  uUy  : 

"When  do  you  think  you'll  have  done,  IMas'  Gammon  ?" 

Thus  pointedly  addressed,  ^Master  Gammon  laid  down  his 
knife  and  fork.  He  half  raised  his  ponderous,  curtaining 
eyelids,  and  replied : 

"  When  I  feels  my  buttons,  marm." 

After  which  he  deliberately  fell  to  work  again. 

•Mrs.  Sumfit  drojjped  back  in  her  chair  as  fi'om  a  blow. 


QUEEN  ANNb's  FARM.  17 

But  even  dumplings,  though  they  resist  so  doggedly  for  a 
space,  do  ultimately  submit  to  the  majestic  march  of  Time, 
and  move.  Master  Gammon  cleared  his  plate.  There  stood 
in  the  dish  still  half  a  dumpling.  The  farmer  and  Rhoda, 
deeming  that  there  had  been  a  show  of  inhospitality,  pressed 
him  to  make  away  with  this  forlorn  remainder. 

The  vindictive  old  man,  who  was  as  tight  as  dumpling 
and  buttons  could  make  him,  refused  it  in  a  drooping  tone, 
and  went  forth,  looking  at  none.  Mrs.  Sumiit  turned  to  all 
parties,  and  begged  them  to  say  what  more,  to  please 
Master  Gammon,  she  could  have  done  ?  When  Anthony 
was  ready  to  speak  of  her  Dahlia,  she  obtruded  this  question 
in  utter  dolefulness.  Robert  was  kindly  asked  by  the  farmer 
to  take  a  pipe  among  them.  Rhoda  put  a  chair  for  him,  but 
he  thanked  them  both,  and  said  he  could  not  neglect  some 
work  to  be  done  in  the  fields.  She  thought  that  he  feared 
pain  from  hearing  Dahlia's  name,  and  followed  him  with  hei* 
eyes  commiseratingly. 

"  Does  that  young  fellow  attend  to  business  ?"  said 
Anthony. 

The  farmer  praised  Robert  as  a  rare  hand,  but  one  affected 
with  bees  in  his  nightcap :  who  had  ideas  of  his  own  about 
farming,  and  Avas  obstinate  with  them ;  "  pays  you  due 
respect,  but's  got  a  notion  as  how  his  way  of  thinking's 
better'n  his  seniors.  It's  the  style  now  with  all  young  folks. 
]\Iakes  a  butt  of  old  Mas'  Gammon ;  laughs  at  the  old  man. 
It  ain't  respectful  t'  age,  I  say.  Gammon  don't  understand 
nothing  about  new  feeds  for  sheep,  and  dam  nonsense  about 
growing  such  things  as  melons,  fiddle-faddle,  for  'em. 
Robert's  a  beginner.  What  he  knows,  I  taught  the  young 
fellow.  Then,  my  question  is,  where's  his  ideas  come  from, 
if  they're  contrary  to  mine  ?  If  they're  contrary  to  mine, 
they're  contrary  to  my  teaching.  Well,  then,  what  are  they 
worth  ?  He  can't  see  that.  He's  a  good  one  at  work — I'll 
Bay  so  much  for  him." 

Old  Anthony  gave  Rhoda  a  pat  on  the  shoulder. 


18  EnODA  FLEMING, 


CHAPTER  III. 

SUGGESTS  THE  MIGHT  OF  THE  MONEY  DEMOW. 

"Pipes  in  the  middle  of  the  day's  regular  revelry,"  ejacu- 
lated Anthony,  whose  way  of  holding  the  curved  pipe-stem 
displayed  a  mind  bent  on  reckless  enjoyment,  and  said  a3 
much  as  a  label  issuing  from  his  mouth,  like  a  figure  in  a 
comic  wood-cut  of  the  old  style : — "  that's,"  he  pursued, 
"  that's  if  you  haven't  got  to  look  up  at  the  clock  every  two 
minutes,  as  if  the  devil  was  after  you.  But,  sitting  here, 
you  knoNV,  the  afternoon's  a  long  evening;  nobody's  your 
master.  You  can  on  -wi'  your  slippers,  up  wi'  your  legs, 
talk,  or  go  for'ard,  counting,  twicing,  and  threetimesing ;  by 
George !  I  should  take  to  drinking  beer  if  I  had  my  after- 
noons to  myself  in  the  city,  just  for  the  sake  of  sitting  and 
doing  sums  in  a  tap-room ;  if  it's  a  big  tap-room,  with  pew 
sort  o'  places,  and  dark  red  curtains,  a  fire,  and  a  smell  of 
sawdust,  ale,  and  tobacco,  and  a  boy  going  by  outside 
whistling  a  tune  of  the  day.  Somebody  comes  in.  '  Ah, 
thei'c's  an  idle  old  chap,'  he  says  to  himself,  (meaning  me), 
and  where,  I  should  like  to  ask  him,  'd  his  head  be  if  he  sat 
there  di\nding  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  by  forty-five 
and  a  half !" 

The  farmer  nodded  encouragingly.  He  thought  it  not 
improbable  that  a  short  operation  with  these  numbers  would 
give  the  sum  in  Anthony's  possession,  the  exact  calculation 
of  his  secret  hoard,  and  he  set  to  work  to  stamp  them  on  his 
brain,  which  rendered  him  absent  in  manner,  while  Mrs. 
Sumfit  mixed  liquor  with  hot  water,  and  pushed  at  his  knee, 
doubling  in  her  enduring  lips,  and  lengthening  her  eyes  to 
aim  a  side-glance  of  reprehension  at  Anthony's  wandering 
loquacity. 

Ehoda  could  bear  it  no  more. 

"  Is  ow  let  me  hear  of  my  sister,  uncle,"  she  said. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  Anthony  responded,  "she  hasn't  got 
such  a  pretty  sort  of  a  sweet  blackbirdy  voice  as  you've 
got." 

The  girl  blushed  scarlet. 

•'  Oh,  she  can  mount  them  colours,  too,"  said  Anthony. 


THE  MIGHT  OF  THE  MONEY  DEMON.  19 

His  ■way  of  speakins:  of  Dahlia  indicated  that  he  and  she 
had  enough  of  one  another  ;  but  of  the  peculiar  object  of  his 
extraordinary  visit  not  even  the  farmer  had  received  a  hint. 
Mrs.  Sumfit  ventured  to  think  aloud  that  his  grog  was  not 
stiff  enough,  but  he  took  a  gulp  under  her  eyes,  and  smacked 
his  lips  after  it  in  a  most  convincing  manner. 

"  Ah !  that  stuff  wouldn't  do  for  me  in  London,  half- 
holiday  or  no  half-holiday,"  said  Anthony. 

"  Why  not  r"  the  farmer  asked. 

"  I  should  be  speculating — deep — couldn't  hold  myself  in  : 
— Mexicans,  Peroovians,  Venzeshoolians,  Spaniards,  at  'em 
I  should  go.  I  see  bonds  in  all  sorts  of  colours,  Spaniards 
in  black  and  white,  Peruvians — orange,  Mexicans — red  as 
the  British  army.  Well,  it's  just  my  whim.  If  I  like  red, 
I  go  at  red.  I  ain't  a  bit  of  reason.  What's  more,  I  never 
speculate." 

"  Why,  that's  safest,  brother  Tony,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  And  safe's  my  game — always  was,  always  will  be  !  Do 
you  think" — Anthony  sucked  his  grog  to  the  sugar-dregs, 
till  the  spoon  settled  on  his  nose — "  do  you  think  I  should 
hold  the  position  I  do  hold,  be  trusted  as  I  am  trusted  ? 
Ah !  you  don't  know  much  about  that.  Should  I  have 
money  placed  in  my  hands,  do  you  think — and  it's  thousands 
at  a  time,  gold,  and  notes,  and  cheques — if  I  was  a  risky 
chap  ?  I'm  known  to  be  thoroughly  respectable.  Five  and 
forty  years  I've  been  in  Boyne's  Bank,  and  thank  ye,  ma'am, 
grog  don't  do  no  harm  down  here.  And  I  tcill  take  another 
glass.     '  When  the  heart  of  a  man  !' — but  I'm  no  singer." 

Mrs.  Sumfit  simpered,  "  Hera ;  it's  the  heart  of  a  woman, 
too  :  and  she  have  one,  and  it's  dying  to  hear  of  her  darlin' 
blessed  in  town,  and  of  who  cuts  her  hair,  and  where  she 
gets  her  gownds,  and  whose  pills " 

The  farmer  interrupted  her  irritably. 

"  Divide  a  couple  o'  hundred  thousand  and  more  by  forty- 
five  and  a  half,"  he  said.  "  Do  wait,  mother;  all  in  good 
time.  Forty-five  and  a-half,  brother  Tony,  that  was  your 
sum — ah  ! — you  mentioned  it  some  time  back — half  of  what  ? 
Is  that  half  a  fraction,  as  they  call  it  ?  I  haven't  forgot 
fractions,  and  logareems,  and  practice,  and  so  on  to  algebrae, 
where  it  always  seems  to  me  to  blow  hard,  for,  whizz  goes 
my  head  in  a  jiffy,  as  soon  as  I've  mounted  the  ladder  to 
look  into  that  country.     How  'bout  that  forty-five  and  a 

c2 


20  RnODA  FLEMING. 

half,   brother   Tony,    if   you   don't   mind  condescending  to 
explain  ?" 

"  Forty-five  and  a  half  ?"  muttered  Anthony,  mystified. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  you  know,  if  you  don't  like  to  say^ 
brother  Tony."  The  farmer  touched  him  up  with  his  pipe- 
Btcm. 

"  Five  and  a  half,"  Anthony  speculated.  "  That's  a 
fraction  you  got  hold  of,  brother  William  John  : — I  remember 
the  parson  calling  out  those  names  at  your  -wedding:  'I, 
William  John,  take  thee,  Susan:'  yes,  that's  a  fraction,  but 
•what's  the  good  of  it  ?" 

"  What  I  mean  is,  it  ain't  forty-five  and  half  of  forty-five. 
Half  of  one,  eh  ?  That's  identical  -with  a  fraction.  One — a 
stioke — and  two  under  it." 

"  You've  got  it  correct,"  Anthony  assented. 

"  How  many  thousand  divide  it  by  ?" 

"  Divide  ivJtat  by,  bi'other  William  John  ?     I'm  beat." 

"  Ah  !  out  comes  the  keys  :  lock  up  everything :  it's  time !" 
the  farmer  laughed,  rather  proud  of  his  brother-in-law's 
perfect  wakefulness  after  two  stiff  tumblers.  He  saw  that 
Anthony  was  determined  with  all  due  friendly  feeling  to  let 
no  one  know  the  sum  in  his  possession. 

"  If  it's  four  o'clock,  it  is  time  to  lock  up,"  said  Anthony, 
"  and  bang  to  go  the  doors,  and  there's  the  money  for  thieves 
to  di-eam  of — they  can't  get  a-nigh  it,  let  them  dream  as 
they  like.     What's  the  hour,  ma'am  ?" 

"Xot  three,  it  ain't,"  returned  Mrs.  Sumfit,  "and  do  be 
good  creatures,  and  begin  about  my  Dahly,  and  where  she 
got  that  sumptions  gownd,  and  the  bonnet  with  blue  flowers 
lyin'  by  on  the  table  :  now,  do !" 
.  Rhoda  coughed. 

"  And  she  wears  lavender  gloves  like  a  lady,"  Mrs.  Sumfit 
was  continuing. 

Rhoda  stamped  on  her  foot. 

"Oh!  cruel!"  the  comfortable  old  woman  snapped  in 
pain,  as  she  applied  her  hand  to  the  inconsolable  fat  foot, 
and  nursed  it.  "  What's  roused  ye,  you  tiger  girl  ?  I  shau't 
be  able  to  get  about,  I  shan't,  and  then  who's  to  cook  for  ye 
all  ?  For  you're  as  ignorant  as  a  raw  kitchen  wench,  and 
knows  nothing." 

"  Come,  Dody,  you're  careless,"  the  fai-mer  spoke  chidingly 
through  Mrs.  Sumfit's  lamentations. 


THE  MIGHT  OF  THE  MONEY  DEMON.  21 

"  Ste  stops  uncle  Anthony  when  he's  just  ready,  father," 
Baid  Rhoda. 

"  Do  you  want  to  "know  ?"  Anthony  set  his  small  eyes  on 
her :  "  do  you  want  to  know,  my  dear  ?"  He  paused,  finger- 
ing his  glass,  and  went  on:  "I,  Susan,  take  thee,  William 
John,  and  you've  come  of  it.  Says  I  to  myself,  when  I  hung 
sheepish  by  your  mother  and  by  your  father,  my  dear,  says 
I  to  myself,  I  ain't  a  marrying  man :  and  if  these  two,  says 
I,  if  any  progeny  comes  to  'em — to  bless  them,  some  people 
'd  say,  but  I  know  what  life  is,  and  what  young  ones  are — if 
— where  was  I  ?  Liquor  makes  you  talk,  brother  William 
John,  but  where's  your  ideas  ?  Gone,  like  hard  cash  !  What 
I  meant  was,  I  felt  I  might  some  day  come  for'ard  and  help 
the  issue  of  your  wife's  weddin',  and  wasn't  such  a  shady 
object  among  you,  after  all.     My  pipe's  out." 

Rhoda  stood  up  and  filled  the  pipe,  and  lit  it  in  silence. 
She  divined  that  the  old  man  must  be  allowed  to  run  on  ia 
his  own  way,  and  for  a  long  time  he  rambled,  gave  a  picture 
of  the  wedding,  and  of  a  robbery  of  Boyne's  Bank :  the  firm 
of  Boyne,  Birt,  Hamble,  and  Company.  At  last,  he  touched 
on  Dahlia. 

"  What  she  ivants,  I  can't  make  out,"  he  said ;  "  and  what 
that  good  lady  there,  or  somebody,  made  mention  of — how 
she  manages  to  dress  as  she  do  !  I  can  understand  a  little 
goin'  a  gi^eat  way,  if  you're  clever  in  any  way  ;  but  I'm  at 
my  tea :"  Anthony  laid  his  hand  out  as  to  exhibit  a  picture. 
*'  I  ain't  a  complaining  man,  and  be  young,  if  you  can,  I  say, 
and  walk  about  and  look  at  shops ;  but,  I'm  at  my  tea :  I 
come  home  rather  tired :  there's  the  tea-things,  sure  enough, 
and  tea's  made,  and,  may  be,  there's  a  shrimp  or  two ;  she 
attends  to  your  creature  comforts.  When  everything's 
locked  up  and  tight  and  right,  I'm  gay,  and  ask  for  a  bit  of 
society  :  well,  I'm  at  my  tea :  I  hear  her  foot  thumping  up 
and  down  her  bed-room  overhead  :  I  know  the  meaning  of 
that :  I'd  rather  hear  nothing :  down  she  runs :  I'm  at  my 
tea,  and  in  she  bvu-sts." — Here  followed  a  dramatic  account 
of  Dahlia's  manner  of  provocation,  which  was  closed  by  the 
extinction  of  his  pipe. 

The  farmer,  while  his  mind  still  hung  about  thousands  o£ 
pounds  and  a  certain  incomprehensible  division  of  them  to 
produce  a  distinct  intelligible  total,  and  set  before  him  the 
sum  of  Anthony's  riches,  could  see  that  his  elder  daughter 


22  RHODA  FLEMING. 

■was  behaving  fliglitily  and  neglecting  the  true  interests  of 
the  family,  and  he  wa?  chagi-ined.  But  Anthony,  before  he 
enti'ird  the  house,  had  assured  him  that  Dahlia  was  well, 
and  that  nothing  was  wrong  with  her.  So  he  looked  at  Mrs. 
Sumtit,  Avho  now  took  upon  herself  to  plead  for  Dahlia :  a 
young  thing,  and  such  a  handsome  creature !  and  we  were 
all  young  some  time  or  other  ;  and  would  heaven  have  mercy 
on  ns,  if  we  were  hard  upon  the  young,  do  you  think  ?  The 
motto  of  a  trulv  i-eligfious  man  said,  try  'em  aLrain.  And, 
may  be,  people  had  been  a  little  hard  upon  Dahlia,  and  the 
girl  was  apt  to  take  offence. .  In  conclusion,  she  appealed 
to  Rhoda  to  speak  up  for  her  sister.  Rhoda  sat  in  quiet 
reserve. 

She  was  sure  her  sister  must  be  justified  in  all  she  did : 
but  the  pictui-e  of  the  old  man  coming  from  his  work  every 
night  to  take  his  tea  quite  alone  made  her  sad.  She  found 
herself  unable  to  speak,  and  as  she  did  not,  Mrs.  Sum  lit  had 
an  acute  twinge  from  her  recently  trodden  foot,  and  called 
her  some  bitter  names  ;  which  was  not  an  unusual  case,  for 
the  kind  old  woman  could  be  querulous,  and  belonged  to  the 
list  of  those  whose  hearts  are  as  scales,  so  that  they  love  not 
one  person  devotedly  without  a  corresponding  spirit  of  oppo- 
sition to  another.     Rhoda  merely  smiled. 

By-and-by,  the  women  left  the  two  men  alone. 

Anthony  turned  and  struck  the  farmer's  knee. 

"  You've  got  a  jewel  in  that  gal,  brother  William  John." 

"  Eh  !  she's  a  good  enough  lass.  Not  much  of  a  manager, 
brother  Tony.  Too  much  of  a  thinker,  I  reckon.  She's  got 
a  temper  of  her  own  too.  I'm  a  bit  hurt,  brother  Tony, 
about  that  other  girl.  She  must  leave  Loudon,  if  she  don't 
alter.  It's  flightiness ;  that's  all.  You  musn't  think  ill  of 
poor  Dahly.  She  was  always  the  pretty  one,  and  when  they 
know  it,  they  act  up  to  it :  she  was  her  mother's  favoui-ite." 

"  Ah  !  poor  Susan  !  an  upright  woman  befoi-e  the  Lord." 

"  She  was,"  said  the  farmer,  bowing  his  head. 

"  And  a  good  wife,"  Anthony  interjected. 

"  None  better — never  a  better ;  and  I  Avish  she  was  living 
to  look  after  her  girls." 

"  I  came  through  the  churchyard,  hard  by,"  said  Anthony; 
"  and  I  read  that  writing  on  her  tombstone.  It  went  like  a 
choke  in  my  throat.  The  first  person  I  saw  next  was  her 
child,  this  young  gal  you  call  Rhoda;  and,  thinks  I  to  myself, 


THE  MIGHT  OP  THE  MONET  DEMON.  23 

yon  miglit  ask  me,  I'd  do  anything  for  ye — that  I  could,  of 
course." 

The  farmer's  eye  had  lit  up,  but  became  overshadowed  by 
the  characteristic  reservation. 

"  Nobody'd  ask  you  to  do  more  than  you  could,"  he 
remarked,  rather  coldly. 

"  It'll  never  be  much,"  sighed  Anthony. 

"  Well,  the  world's  nothing,  if  you  come  to  look  at  it 
close."     The  farmer  adopted  a  similar  tone. 

"  What's  money  !"  said  Anthony. 

The  farmer  immediately  resumed  his  this-worldliness  : 

"  Well,  it's  fine  to  go  about  asking  us  poor  devils  to  answer 
ye  that"  he  said,  and  chuckled,  conceiving  that  he  had  nailed 
Anthony  down  to  a  partial  confession  of  his  ownership  of 
some  worldly  goods. 

"  What  do  you  call  having  money  ?"  observed  the  latter 
clearly  in  the  trap.     "  Fifty  thousand  ?" 

"  Whew  !"  went  the  farmer,  as  at  a  big  di-aught  of  power- 
ful stuff. 

"  Ten  thousand  ?" 

Mr.  Fleming  took  this  second  gulp  almost  contemptuously, 
but  still  kindly. 

"  Come,"  quoth  Anthony,  "  ten  thousand's  not  so  mean, 
you  know.  You're  a  gentleman  on  ten  thousand.  So.  on 
five.  I'll  tell  ye,  many  a  gentleman  'd  be  glad  to  own  it. 
Lor'  bless  you  1  But,  you  know  nothing  of  the  world, 
brother  William  John.  Some  of  'em  haven't  one — ain't  so 
rich  as  you !" 

"  Or  you,  brother  Tony  ?"  The  farmer  made  a  grasp  at 
his  will-o'-the-wisp. 

"Oh!  me!"  Anthony  sniggered.  ''I'm  a  scraper  of  odds 
and  ends.  I  pick  up  things  in  the  gutter.  Mind  you,  those 
Jews  ain't  such  fools,  though  a  curse  is  on  'em,  to  wander 
forth.  They  know  the  meaning  of  the  multiplication  table. 
They  ea,n  turn  fractions  into  whole  numbers.  No;  I'm  not 
to  be  compared  to  gentlemen.  My  property  's  my  respect- 
ability. I  said  that  at  the  beginning,  and  I  say  it  now.  But, 
I'll  tell  you  what,  brother  William  John,  it's  an  emotion 
■when  you've  got  bags  of  thousands  of  pounds  in  your  arms." 

Ordinarily,  tbe  farmer  was  a  sensible  man,  as  straight  on. 
the  level  of  dull  intellia:ence  as  other  men :  but  so  credulous 
was  he  in  regard  to  the  riches  possessed  by  his  wife's  brother, 


24  TjnODA  FLEMINa. 

that  a  very  little  tempted  him  to  childish  exncrcrPratioTi  of 
the  ]n-obabIe  amount.     Now  that  Anthouy  himst'lf  i'urnislied 
the  incitement,  he  was  quite  lifted  from  the  earth.     He  had, 
besides,  taken  more  of  the  strong  mixture  than  he  was  ever 
accustomed  to  take  in  the  middle  of  the  day;  and  as  it  seemed 
to  him  that  Anthony  was  really  about  to  be  seduced  into  a 
particular  statement  of  the   extent  of  the  property  which 
formed  his  respectability  (as  Anthony  had  chosen  to  put  it), 
he  got  up  a  little  game  in  his  head  by  guessing  how  much 
the  amount  might  positively  be,  so  that  he  could  subst!quently 
compare  his  shrewd  reckoning  with  the  avowed  fact.     He 
tamed  his  wild  ideas  as  much   as  possible;   thought  over 
what  his  wife  used  to  say  of  Anthony's  saving  ways  from 
boyhood,  thought  of  the  dark  hints  of  the  Funds,  of  many 
bold   strokes   for    money   made    by   sagacious   persons ;    of 
Anthony's  close  style  of  living,  and  of  the  lives  of  celebrated 
misers ;  this  done,  he  resolved  to  make  a  sure  guess,  and 
therefore  aimed  below  the  mark.     Money,  when  the  imagin- 
ation  deals  with  it  thus,  has  no  substantial  relation  to  mortal 
affairs.     It  is  a  tricksy  thing,  distending  and  c    iti-acting  as 
it  dances  in  the  mind,  like  sunlight  on  the  CDiliug  cast  from 
a  morning  tca-cup,  if  a  forced  simile  will  aid  tlie  conception. 
The  farmer  struck  on  thirty  thousand  and  some  odd  hndred 
pounds — outlying  debts,  or  so,  excluded — as  what  Aniiiony's 
-will,  in  all  likelihood,  would  be  sworn  under :  say,  thirty 
thousand,  or,  safer,  say,  twenty  thousand.     Bequeathed— 
how  ?     To  him  and  to  his  children.     But  to  the  children  in 
reversion  after  his  decease  ?     Or  how  ?     In  any  case,  they 
might  make  capital  marriages ;  and  the  farm  estate  should 
go  to  w^hichever  of  the  two  young  husbands  he  liked  the 
best.     Farmer  Fleming  asked  not  for  any  life  of  ease  and 
splendour,  though  thirty  thousand  pounds  was   a  fortune ; 
or  even  twenty  thousand.     Noblemen  have  stooped  to  marry 
heiresses  owning  no  more  than   that!     The  idea  of   their 
having  done  so  actually  shot  across  him,  and  his  heart  sent 
up  a  warm  spring  of  tenderness   toward  the  patient,  good, 
grubbing  old  fellow,  sitting  beside  him,  who  had  lived  and 
died  to  enrich  and  elevate  the  family.     At  the  same  time, 
he  could  not   lefrain  from  thinking  that  Anthony,  broad- 
shouldered  as   he  was,  though  bent,  sound  on  his  legs,  and 
well-coloured  for  a  Londoner,  would  be  accepted  by  any  Life 
Insurance    oflice,  at  a   moderate  rate,  considering  his  age. 


THE  TEXT  FROM  SCRIPTUEE.  25 

Tte  farmer  thought  of  his  own  health,  and  it  was  with  a 
pang  that  he  fancied  himself  being  probed  by  the  civil- 
speaking  Life  Insurance  doctor  (a  gentleman  who  seems  to 
issue  upon  us  applicants  from  out  the  muffled  foldino-  doors 
of  Hades ;  taps  us  on  the  chest,  once,  twice,  and  forthwith 
writes  down  our  fateful  dates).  Probably,  Anthony  would 
not  have  to  pay  a  higher  rate  of  interest  than  he. 

"Are  you  insui-ed,  brother  Tony?"  the  question  escaped 
him. 

"  1^0,  I  ain't,  brother  William  John ;"  Anthony  went  on 
nodding  like  an  automaton  set  in  motion.  "  There's  two 
sides  to  that.  I'm  a  long-lived  man.  Long-lived  men  don't 
insure ;  that  is,  unless  they're  fools.  That's  how  the  Offices 
thrive." 

"  Case  of  accident  ?"  the  farmer  suggested. 

"  Oh  !  nothing  happens  to  me,"  replied  Anthony. 

The  farmed  jumped  on  his  legs,  and  yawned. 

*•  Shall  we  take  a  turn  in  the  garden,  brother  Tony  ?" 

"With  all  my  heart,  brother  William  John." 

The  farmer  had  conscience  to  be  ashamed  of  the  fit  of 
irritable  ve.xarion  which  had  seized  on  him;  and  it  was  not 
till  Anthony  being  asked  the  date  of  his  birth,  had  declared 
himself  twelve  yeai-s  his  senior,  that  the  farmer  felt  his 
speculations  to  be  justified.  Anthony  was  nearly  a  genera- 
tion ahead.  They  walked  about,  and  were  seen  from  the 
windows  touching  one  another  on  the  shoulder  in  a  brotherly 
way.  When  they  came  back  to  the  women,  and  tea,  the 
farmer's  mind  was  cooler,  and  all  his  reckonings  had  gone 
to  mist.     He  was  dejected  over  his  tea. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  father  ?"  said  Rhoda. 

"  I'll  tell  you,  my  dear,"  Anthony  replied  for  him.  "He's 
envying  me  some  one  I  want  to  ask  me  that  question  when 
I'm  at  my  tea  in  London." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  TEXT  FROM  SCRIPTURE. 


Mr.  Fleming  kept  his  forehead  from  his  daughter's  good- 
night kiss  until  the  room  was  cleared,  after  supper,  and  then 


2n  RITODA  FLKMIXO. 

embracing:  ber  very  heartily,  he  informed  her  that  licr  uncle 
had  (illVrod  to  ]»ay  Ikt  expenses  on  u  visit  to  Jjondon,  by 
which  lie  conti-ived  tu  hint  that  a  pcohlen  j)ath  had  opened  to 
his  girl,  and  at  the  same  bime  entreated  her  to  think  nothing 
of  it;  to  dismiss  all  expectations  and  dreams  of  impossible 
sums  from  her  mind,  and  simply  to  endeavour  to  please  her 
uncle,  who  had  a  riulit  to  his  own,  and  a  rii^ht  to  do  what 
he  liked  with  his  own,  thou^'-h  it  were  forty,  fifty  times  as 
much  as  he  ])ossessed — and  what  that  miL,^ht  amount  to  no 
one  knew.  In  fact,  as  is  the  way  with  many  exjicrienced 
persons,  in  his  attempt  to  give  advice  to  another,  he  was 
very  impressive  in  lecturing  himself,  and  warned  lliat  other 
not  to  succumb  to  a  temptation  princi|)ally  by  indicating  tlie 
natural  basis  of  the  allurement.  Happily  for  young  and  for 
old,  the  intense  insight  of  the  young  has  much  to  distract  or 
soften  it.  Khoda  thanked  her  father,  and  chose  to  think 
that  she  had  listened  to  good  and  wise  things. 

"  Your  sister,"  he  said — "  but  we  won't  speak  of  her.  If 
I  could  part  with  you,  my  lass,  I'd  rather  she  was  the  one  to 
come  back." 

"  Dahlia  would  be  killed  by  our  quiet  life  now,"  said 
Rhoda. 

"Ay,"  the  farmer  mused.  "If  she'd  got  to  pay  six  men 
every  Saturday  night,  she  wouldn't  complain  o'  the  quiet. 
But,  there  ! — you  neither  of  you  ever  took  to  farming  or  to 
housekeeping;  but  any  gentleman  might  be  proud  to  have 
one  of  you  for  a  wife.  I  said  so  when  you  was  girls.  And  if 
you've  been  dull,  my  dear,  Avhat's  the  good  o'  society  ?  Tea- 
cakes  mayn't  seem  to  cost  money,  nor  a  glass  o'  grog  to 
neighbours  ;  but  once  open  the  door  to  that  sort  o'  thing  and 
your  reckoning  goes.  And  what  I  said  to  your  poor  mothei-'s 
true.  I  said  :  our  girls,  they're  mayhap  not  erpials  of  the 
Hollands,  the  Nashaws,  the  Perrets,  and  the  others  about 
here — no ;  they're  not  equals,  because  the  others  are  not 
equals  o'  them,  maybe." 

The  yeoman's  pi'ide  struggled  out  in  this  ob.scure  way  to 
vindicate  his  unneighbourliness  and  the  seclusion  of  his 
daughters  from  the  society  of  gii'ls  of  their  age  and  condition; 
nor  was  it  hard  for  Rhoda  to  assure  him,  as  she  earnestly 
did,  that  he  had  acted  rightly. 

Rhoda,  assisted  by  Mrs.  Sumfit,  was  late  in  the  night  look- 
ing up  what  poor  decorations  she  possessed  wherewith   to 


THE  TEXT  PROM  SCRIPTURE.  27 

enter  Lotic!oti,  and  be  worthy  of  her  sister's  embrace,  so  that 
she  might  not  shock  the  lady  Dahlia  had  become. 

"Depend  you  on  it,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Sumfit,  "my 
Dahly's  grown  above  him.  That's  nettles  to  your  uncle,  my 
dear.  He  can't  abide  it.  Don't  you  see  he  can't  ?  Some 
men's  like  that.  Others  'd  see  you  dressed  like  a  princess, 
and  not  be  satisfied.  They  vary  so,  the  teasin'  creatures ! 
Eut  one  and  all,  whether  they  likes  it  or  not,  owns  a  woman's 
the  better  for  bein'  dressed  in  the  fashion.  What  do  grieve 
me  to  my  insidest  heart,  it  is  your  bonnet.  What  a  bonnet 
that  was  lying  beside  her  dear  round  arm  in  the  po'trait,  and 
her  finger  up  making  a  dimple  in  her  cheek,  as  if  she  was 
thinking  of  us  in  a  sorrowful  way.  That's  the  arts  o'  being 
lady-like : — look  sad-like.  How  could  we  get  a  bonnet  for 
you  r 

"  My  own  must  do,"  said  Rhoda. 

"  Yes,  and  you  to  look  like  lady  and  servant-gal  a-going 
out  for  an  airin'  ;  and  she  to  feel  it !     Pretty,  that  'd  be  !" 

"  She  won't  be  ashamed  of  me,"  Rhoda  faltered ;  and  then 
hummed  a  little  tune,  and  said  firmly — "  It's  no  use  my 
trying  to  look  like  what  I'm  not.'' 

"  No,  truly  ;"  Mrs.  Sumfit  assented.  "  But  it's  your  bein' 
behind  the  fashions  what  hurt  me.  As  well  you  might  beau 
old  thing  like  me,  for  any  pleasant  looks  you'll  git.  Now, 
the  country — you're  like  in  a  coal-hole  for  the  matter  o'  that. 
While  London,  my  dear,  its  pavement  and  gutter,  and  omnibus 
traffic ;  and  if  you're  not  in  the  fashion,  the  little  wicked 
boys  of  the  streets  themselves  '11  let  you  know  it ;  they've 
got  such  eyes  for  fashions,  they  have.  And  I  don't  want  my 
Dahly's  sister  to  be  laughed  at,  and  called  '  coal-scuttle,'  as 
happened  to  me,  my  dear,  believe  it  or  not^ — and  shoved  aside, 
and  said  to — '  who  are  you  ?'  For  she  reely  is  nice-looking. 
Your  uncle  Anthony  and  Mr.  Robert  agreed  upon  that." 

Rhoda  coloured,  and  said,  after  a  time,  "  It  would  please 
me  if  people  didn't  speak  about  my  looks." 

The  looking-glass  probably  told  her  no  more  than  that  she 
was  nice  to  the  eye,  but  a  young  man  who  sees  anything 
should  not  see  like  a  mirror,  and  a  girl's  instinct  whispers  to 
her,  that  her  image  has  not  been  taken  to  heart  when  she  is 
accurately  and  impartially  described  by  him. 

The  key  to  Rhoda  at  this  period  was  a  desire  to  be  made 
warm  with  praise   of  her  person.     She  beheld  her  face  at 


28  RHODA  FLEMINO. 

times,  and  shivered.  The  face  Tvas  so  fitrariG^e  witli  its  dark 
thifk  eyebrows,  and  peculiarly  stniio-ht-gazin^  brown  eyes; 
the  level  lonL,'  red  iindei'-lip  and  curved  U|i])er;  and  the  chia 
and  nose,  so  unlike  Dahlias,  whose  nose  was,  alter  a  little 
dip  from  the  forehead,  one  soft  line  to  its  extremity,  and 
whose  chin  seemed  shaped  to  a  cup.  Rhoda's  outlines  were 
harder.  There  was  a  suspicion  of  a  heavenward  turn  to  her 
nose,  and  of  squareness  to  her  chin.  Her  face,  when  studied, 
inspired  in  its  owners  mind  a  doubt  of  her beinii^  even  nice  to 
the  eye,  thouch  she  knew  that  in  exercise,  and  when  smitten 
by  a  blush,  briixhtness  and  colour  aided  her  claims.  She 
knew  also  that  her  head  was  easily  poised  on  her  neck  ;  ami 
that  her  fio-iire  was  reasonably  i^ood ;  but  all  this  was  uncon- 
firmed knowledge,  quickly  shadowed  by  the  doubt.  As  the 
sun  is  wanted  to  glorify  the  right  features  of  a  landscape, 
this  <rirl  thirsted  for  a  dose  of  golden  flattery.  She  felt, 
without  envy  of  her  sister,  that  Dahlia  eclipsed  her:  and  all 
she  prayed  for  was  that  she  might  not  be  quite  so  much  in 
the  back-ground  and  obscure. 

But  great,  powerfiil  London — the  new  universe  to  her 
wpirit — was  opening  its  ai-ms  to  her.  In  her  half  sleep  that 
night  she  heard  the  mighty  thunder  of  the  city,  crashing 
tumults  of  disordered  harmonies,  and  the  splendour  of  the 
lamp-lighted  city  appeared  to  hang  up  under  a  daik-blue 
heaven,  removed  from  earth,  like  a  fresh  planet  to  which  she 
was  being  beckoned. 

At  breakfast  on  the  Sunday  morning,  her  dej^arture  was 
necessarily  spoken  of  in  public.  Robert  talked  to  her  exactly 
as  he  had  talked  to  Dahlia,  on  the  like  occasion.  Ho  men- 
tioned, as  she  remembered  in  one  or  two  instances,  the  names 
of  the  same  streets,  and  professed  a  similar  anxiety  as 
regarded  driving  her  to  the  station  and  catching  the  train. 
"  That's  a  thing  which  makes  a  man  feel  his  streu'^th's 
nothing,"  he  said.  "  You  can't  stop  it.  I  fancy  I  could  stop 
a  four-in-hand  at  full  gallop.  Mind,  I  only  fancy  I  could; 
but  when  you  come  to  do  with  iron  and  steam  I  feel  like  a 
baby.     You  can't  stop  trains." 

"  You  can  trip  'em,"  said  Anthony,  a  remark  that  called 
forth  general  laughter,  and  increased  the  impression  that  he 
was  a  man  of  resources. 

Rhoda  was  vexed  by  Robert's  devotion  to  his  strength. 
She  was  going,  and  wished   to  go,  but  she  wished  to  ba 


THE  TEXT  FROM  SCRIPTURE.  29 

regretted  as  ■well ;  and  she  looked  at  him  more.  He,  on  tlie 
contrary,  scarcely  looked  at  her  at  all.  He  threw  verbal 
turnips,  oats,  oxen,  poultry,  and  every  possible  melancholy 
matter-of-fact  thing,  about  the  table,  described  the  farm  and 
his  fondness  for  it  and  the  neighbourhood  ;  said  a  farmer's 
life  Avas  best,  and  gave  Rhoda  a  week  in  which  to  be  tired 
of  London. 

She  sneered  in  her  soul,  thinking  "  how  little  he  knows  of 
the  constancy  in  the  nature  of  women!"  adding,  '^  when  they 
form  attachments." 

Anthony  was  shown  at  church,  in  spite  of  a  feeble  intima- 
tion he  expressed,  that  it  would  be  agreeable  to  liim  to  walk 
about  in  the  March  sunshine,  and  see  the  grounds  and  the 
wild  flowers,  which  never  gave  trouble,  nor  cost  a  pennv, 
and  were  always  pretty,  and  worth  twenty  of  your  artificial 
contrivances. 

"  Same  as  I  say  to  Miss  Dahly,"  he  took  occasion  to 
remark ;  "  but  no  ! — no  good.  I  don't  believe  women  hear 
ye,  when  you  talk  sense  of  that  kind.  '  Look,'  says  I,  '  at  a 
violet.'  '  Look,'  says  she,  '  at  a  rose.'  Well,  what  can  ye 
say  after  that  ?  She  swears  the  rose  looks  best.  You  swear 
the  violet  costs  least.  Then  there  you  have  a  battle  between 
■what  it  costs  and  how  it  looks." 

Robert  pronounced  a  conventional  afiirmative,  when  called 
on  for  it  by  a  look  from  Anthony.  Whereupon  Rhoda  cried 
out: 

"  Dahlia  was  right — she  was  right,  uncle." 

"  She  was  right,  my  dear,  if  she  was  a  ten-thousander. 
She  wasn't  right  as  a  fai'mer's  daughter  with  poor  expecta- 
tions : — I'd  say  lir.mble,  if  humble  she  were.  As  a  farmer's 
daughter,  she  should  choose  the  violet  side.  That's  clear  as 
day.  One  thing's  good,  I  admit ;  she  tells  me  she  makes 
her  0"WTa  bonnets,  and  they're  as  good  as  milliners',  and  that's 
a  proud  matter  to  say  of  your  own  niece.  And  to  buy 
dresses  for  her.self,  1  suppose,  she's  sat  down  aud  she  made 
dresses  for  tine  ladies.  I've  found  her  at  it.  Save  the 
money  for  the  work,  says  I.  What  does  she  reply — she 
always  has  a  reply :  Uncle,  I  know  the  value  of  money 
better.  You  mean,  you  spend  it,  I  says  to  her.  I  buy  more 
than  it's  worth,  says  she.  And  I'll  tell  you  what,  Mr.  Robert 
Armstrong,  as  I  find  your  name  to  be,  sii' ;  if  you  beat 
women  at  talking,  my  lord  !  you're  a  clever  chap." 


so  KHODA  PLEMTNO. 

Robert  lanprlicfl.     "  I  give  in  at  the  first  mile.** 

"  Don't  think  much  of  women — is  that  it,  sir  ?** 

"  I'm  g\ad  to  say  I  don't  think  ot"  thi'ni  at  all." 

"  1  )o    you  think  of  one  woman,  now,  Mr.  liobert  Aiin- 
stronq-  ?" 

"I'll  Tiinch  rather  think  of  two." 

"  And  why,  may  I  ask  f" 

"  It's  safer." 

"  Now,  1  don't  exactly  see  that,"  said  Anthony. 

"You  set  one  to  tear  the  other,"  Robert  explained. 

"  You're  a  Grand  Turk  Mof^ul  in  your  reasonings  of  women, 
Mr.  Robei-t  Armstrong.  I  hope  as  your  morals  are  sound,  sir  ?" 

They  were  on  the  road  to  church,  but  Robert  could  not 
restrain  a  swinging  outburst. 

He  observed  that  he  hoped  likewise  that  his  morals  were 
Bound. 

"  Because,"  said  Anthony,  "  do  you  see,  sir,  two 
wives " 

"  No,  no ;  one  wife,"  interposed  Robert.  "  You  said 
'  think  about ;'  I"d  '  think  about '  any  number  of  women,  if  I 
was  idle.  But  the  woman  you  mean  to  make  your  wife,  you 
go  to  at  once,  and  don't  '  think  about '  her  or  the  question 
either."  ' 

"  You  make  sure  of  her,  do  you,  sir  ?** 

"  No  :  I  try  my  luck ;  that  is  all." 

*'  Suppose  she  won't  have  ye  ?" 

♦'  Then  I  wait  for  her." 

*'  Suppose  she  gets  married  to  somebody  else  ?" 

*'  Well,  you  know,  I  shouldn't  cast  eye  on  a  woman  wTio 
was  a  fool." 

"Well,  upon  my *'  Anthony  checked  his  exclama- 
tion, returning  to  the  charge  with,  "Just  supjiose,  for  the 
sake  of  supposing — siipposing  she  was  a  fool,  and  gone  and 
got  married,  and  you  thiown  back'ard  on  one  leg,  starin'  at 
the  other,  stupihed — like  ?" 

"  I  don't  mind  supjiosing  it,"  said  Robei-t.  "  Say,  she's  a 
fool.  Her  being  a  fool  argues  that  I  was  one  in  making  a 
fool's  choice.  So,  she  jilts  me,  and  I  get  a  pistol,  or  1  get  a 
neat  bit  of  rope,  or  I  take  a  clean  header  with  a  cannon-ball 
at  my  heels,  or  I  go  to  the  chemist's  and  ask  for  stuff  to 
poison  rats, — anything  a  fool  'd.  do  under  the  circumstances, 
It  don't  matter  what." 


THE  TEXT  PROM  SCRIPTURE.  31 

Old  Anthony  waited  for  Rhoda  to  jump  over  a  stjle,  and 
said  to  her — 

"  He  hiiio-hs  at  the  whole  lot  of  ye." 

"  Who  P"  she  asked,  Avith  betraying  cheeks. 

"  This  Mr.  Robert  Armstrong  of  yours." 

*'  Of  mine,  uncle  !" 

*'  He  don't  seem  to  care  a  snap  o'  the  finger  for  any  of  ye." 

•'  Then,  none  of  us  must  care  for  him,  uncle." 

"  Now,  just  the  contrary.  That  always  shows  a  young 
fellow  who's  attending  to  his  busine.ss.  If  he'd  seen  you 
boil  potatoes,  make  dumplins,  beds,  tea,  all  that,  you'd  have 
had  a  chance.  He'd  have  marched  up  to  ye  before  you  was 
oif  to  London." 

"  Saying,  '  Tou  ar  j  the  woman.'  "  Rhoda  was  too 
desperately  tickled  by  the  idea  to  refrain  from  utteiing  it, 
though  she  was  angry,  and  suffering  internal  discontent. 
*'  Or  else,  '  Tou  are  the  cook,'  "  she  muttered,  and  shut,  with 
the  word,  steel  bars  acro.ss  her  heart,  calling  him,  mentally, 
names  not  justified  by  anything  he  had  said  or  done — such 
as  mercenary,  tyrannical,  and  such  like. 

Robert  was  attentive  to  her  in  church.  Once  she  caught 
him  with  his  eyes  on  her  face  ;  but  he  betrayed  no  confusion, 
and  looked  away  at  the  clergyman.  When  the  text  was 
given  out,  he  found  the  place  in  his  Bible,  and  handed  it  to 
her  pointedly — "  There  shall  be  snares  and  traps  unto  you ;" 
a  line  from  Joshua.  She  received  the  act  as  a  polite  parting 
civility  ;  but  when  she  was  coming  out  of  church,  Robert 
saw  that  a  blush  swept  over  her  face,  and  wondered  what 
thoughts  could  be  rising  within  her,  unaware  that  girls 
catch  certain  meanings  late,  and  suffer  a  fiery  torture  v.-hen 
these  meanings  are  clear  to  them.  Rhoda  called  up  the  jjrido 
of  her  womanhood  that  she  might  despise  the  man  who  had 
dared  to  distrust  her.  She  kept  her  poppy  colour  through- 
out the  day,  so  sensitive  was  this  pride.  13ut  most  she  was 
angered,  after  reflection,  by  the  doubts  which  Robert 
appeared  to  cast  on  Dahlia,  in  setting  his  finger  upon  that 
burning  line  of  Scripture.  It  opened  a  whole  black  kingdom 
to  her  imagination,  and  first  touched  her  visionary  life  with 
shade.  She  was  sincere  in  her  ignorance  that  the  doubts 
were  her  own,  but  they  lay  deep  in  unawakened  recesses  of 
the  soul ;  it  was  by  a  natural  action  of  her  reason  that  she 
transferred  and  forced  them  upon  him  who  had  chanced  to 
make  them  visible. 


32  EnODA  FLEMING, 

CHAPTER  y. 

THE     SISTERS     MEET. 

WnKN  yonng  minds  are  set  upon  a  distant  objoct,  tTioy 
scarcely  live  lor  anythini;^  about   tluin.     Tlie  drive   to  the 
station  and  the  parting  with  llobert,  the  journey  to  London, 
■^vhich  liad  hitterly  scorned  to  her  secretly-distressed  antici- 
pation like  a  sunken  city — a  place  of  wonder  with  the  waters 
over  it — all  passed  by  smoothly;  and  then  it  became  neces- 
sary to  call  a  cabman,  for  wdiom,  as  he  did  her  the  service  to 
lift  her  box,  llhoda  felt  a  gracious  respect,  until  a  quarrel 
ensued  between  him  and  her  uncle  concerning  sixpence ;  a 
poor  sum,  as   she  thouglit ;    but  representing,   as  Anthony 
imj)i'esscd  upon    her  understanding  during  the    conflict  of 
hard  words,  a  principle.     Those  who  can  persuade   them- 
selves  that  they  are  fighting  for  a  principle,  tight  strenuously, 
and  may  he   reckoned   upon   to  overmatch  combatants    on 
behalf  of  a  miserable  small  coin  ;  so  the  cabman  went  away 
discomtited.     He  used  such  bad  language  that  Rhoda  had  no 
pity  for  him,  Jind  hearing  her  uncle  style  it  "  the  London 
tongue,"  she  thought  dispiritedly  of  Dahlia's  having  had  to 
listen  to  it  through  so  long  a  season.     Dahlia  was  not  at 
home  ;  but  Mrs.  AVicklow^  Anthony's  landlady,  undertook  to 
make  Rhoda  comfortable,   which    operation  she    began   by 
praising  dark  young  ladies  over  fair  ones,  at  the  same  time 
shaking  Rhoda's  ann  that  she  might  not  fail  to  see  a  com- 
pliment was  intended.     "This  is  our  London  way,"  she  said, 
liut    ivhoda  was    most    disconcerted  -wlien  she    heard  Mrs. 
Wicklow   relate  that  her   daughter   and   Dahlia   were   out 
together,  and  say,  that  she  had  no  doubt  they  had  found 
some  pleasant  and  attentive  gentleman  for  a  companion,  if 
they  had  not  gone  purposely  to  meet  one.     Her  thoughts  of 
her  sister  were  perplexed,  and  London  seemed  a  gigantic  net 
around  them  both. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  habit  with  the  girls  np  here,"  said  An- 
thony ;  "  that's  what  tine  bonnets  mean." 

Rhoda  dropped  into  a  bitter  depth  of  brooding.  The 
savage  nature  of  her  virgin  pride  was  such  that  it  gave  her 
great  sulTering  even  to  suppose  that  a  strange  gentleman 
"Would  dare  to  address  her  sister.     She  half-fashioned  the 


THE  SISTERS  MEET.  33 

words  on  her  lips  that  she  had  dreamed  of  a  false  Zion,  and 
■was  being  righteously  punished.  B_y-and-by  the  landlady's 
daughter  returned  home  alone,  saying,  with  a  dreadful 
lauo-h,  that  Dahlia  had  sent  her  for  her  Bible  ;  but  she 
would  give  no  explanation  of  the  singular  mission  which  had 
been  entrusted  to  her,  and  she  showed  no  willingness  to 
attempt  to  fulfil  it,  merely  repeating,  "  Her  Bible  !"  with  a 
vulgar  exhibition  of  simulated  scorn  that  caused  Rhoda  to 
shinnk  from  her,  though  she  would  gladly  have  poured  out  a 
multitude  of  questions  in  the  ear  of  one  who  had  last,  been 
with  her  beloved.  After  a  while,  Mrs.  Wicklow  looked  at 
the  clock,  and  instantly  became  overclouded  with  an  extreme 
gravity. 

"  Eleven !  and  she  sent  Mary  Ann  home  for  her  Bible. 
This  looks  bad.  I  call  it  hypocritical,  the  idea  of  mention- 
ing the  Bible.  Now,  if  she  had  said  to  Mary  Ann,  go  and 
fetch  any  other  book  but  a  Bible  !" 

"  It  was  mother's  Bible,"  interposed  Rhoda. 

Mrs.  Wicklow  replied  :  "  And  I  wish  all  young  women  to 
be  as  innocent  as  you,  my  dear.  You'll  get  you  to  bed. 
You're  a  dear,  mild,  sweet,  good  young  woman.  I'm  never 
deceived  in  character." 

Vaunting  her  penetration,  she  accompanied  Rhoda  to 
Dahlia's  chamber,  bidding  her  sleep  speedily,  or  that  when 
her  sister  came  they  would  be  talking  till  the  cock  crowed 
hoarse. 

"  There's  a  poultry-yard  close  to  us  ?"  said  Rhoda  ;  feeling 
less  at  home  when  she  heard  that  there  was  not. 

The  night  was  quiet  and  clear.  She  leaned  her  head  out 
of  the  window,  and  heard  the  mellow  Sanday  evening  roar 
of  the  city  as  of  a  sea  at  ebb.  And  Dahlia  was  out  on  the 
sea.  Rhoda  thought  of  it  as  she  looked  at  the  row  of  lamps, 
and  listened  to  the  noise  remote,  until  the  sight  of  stars  was 
pleasant  as  the  faces  of  friends.  "People  are  kind  here," 
she  reflected,  for  her  short  experience  of  the  landlady  was 
good,  and  a  young  gentleman  who  had  hailed  a  cab  for  her 
at  the  station,  had  a  nice  voice.  He  was  fair.  "  I  am  dark," 
came  a  spontaneous  reflection.  She  undressed,  and  half 
dozing  over  her  beating  heart  in  bed,  heard  the  street  door 
open,  and  leaped  to  think  that  her  sister  approached,  jump- 
ing up  in  her  bed  to  give  ear  to  the  door  and  the  stairs,  that 
were  conducting  her  joy  to  her  :  but  she  quickly  recomposed 

D 


34  RHODA  FLEMING. 

herself,  and  feigned  sleep,  for  the  delight  of  revellino;  in  her 
sister's  first  wonder  men  t.  Tlie  door  was  flung  wide,  and 
Rlioda  heard  hor  naiiic  callfd  l)y  Dahlia's  voico,  and  then 
thfi-c  was  a  delicious  siU'ncc,  and  she  felt  tliat  Dahlia  was 
coming  up  to  her  on  tiptoe,  and  waited  for  lier  head  to  be 
st()0])fd  near,  that  she  iiiight  iliiig  out  her  arms,  and  draw 
the  dear  head  to  her  bosom,  liiil  Dahlia  eame  only  to  the 
bedside,  without  leaning  over,  and  spoke  of  her  looks,  which 
held  the  girl  quiet. 

"How  she  sleeps!  It's  a  country  sleep!"  Dahlia  mur- 
mured. "  She's  changed,  but  it's  all  for  the  better.  She's 
quite  a  woman ;  she's  a  perfect  brunette  ;  and  the  nose  I 
used  to  lau!4h  at  suits  her  face  and  those  black,  thick  eye- 
brows of  hers;  my  pet!  Oh,  why  is  she  here?  What's 
meant  by  it  ?  I  knew  nothing  of  her  coming.  Is  she  sent 
on  purpose  ?'* 

Khoda  did  not  stir.  The  tone  of  Dahlia's  speaking,  low 
and  almost  awful  to  her,  laid  a  flat  hand  on  her,  and  kept 
her  still. 

"  I  came  for  my  Bible,"  she  heard  Dahlia  say.  "  I  pro- 
mised mother — oh,  my  poor  darling  mother!  And  Dody 
lying  in  my  bed !  Who  would  have  thought  of  such  things  ? 
Perhaps  heaven  does  look  after  us  and  interfere.  What  will 
become  of  me  ?  Oh,  you  pretty  innocent  in  your  sleep  !  I 
lie  for  hours,  and  can't  sleep.  She  binds  her  hair  in  a  knot 
on  the  pillow,  just  as  she  used  to  in  the  old  farm  days !" 

Rhoda  knew  that  her  sister  was  bending  over  her  now, 
but  she  was  almost  frigid,  and  could  not  move. 

Dahlia  went  to  the  looking-glass.  "  How  flushed  I  am  !" 
she  murmui-ed.  "  No  ;  I'm  pale,  quite  white.  I've  lost  my 
strength.  AVhat  can  I  do?  How  could  I  take  mutlier's 
Bible,  and  run  from  my  pretty  one,  who  expects  me,  and 
di'tams  she'll  wake  witli  me  beside  her  in  the  morniTig.  I 
can't — I  can't  !     If  you  love  me,  I'^dward,  you  wont  wish  it." 

She  fell  into  a  chair,  crying  wildly,  and  mufHing  her  sobs. 
Rhoda's  eyelids  grew  moist,  but  wonder  and  the  cold  anguish 
of  senseless  sympathy  held  her  still  frost-bound.  All  at 
once  she  heard  the  window  open.  Some  one  spoke  in  the 
street  below  ;  some  one  uttered  Dahlia's  name.  A  deep  bell 
Bwung  a  note  of  midnight. 

"Go!"crind  Dalilia. 

The  window  vvu.s  instantly  shut. 


EDWARD  AND  ALGERNON.  35 

The  vibration  of  Dahlia's  voice  went  through  Rhoda  like 
the  heavy  shaking  of  the  bell  after  it  had  struck,  and  the 
room  seemed  to  spin  and  hum.  It  was  to  her  but  another 
minute  before  her  sister  slid  softly  into  the  bed,  and  they 
were  locked  toa-ether. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

EDWARD  AND  ALGERNON 


Botne's  Bank  was  of  the  order  of  those  old  and  firmly- 
fixed  establishments  which  have  taken  root  with  the  fortunes 
of  the  country — are  honourable  as  England's  name,  solid  as 
her  prosperity,  and  even  as  the  flourishing  green  tree  to 
shareholders  :  a  granite  house.  Boyne  himself  had  been 
disembodied  for  more  than  a  century  :  Burt  and  Hamble 
were  still  of  the  flesh  ;  but  a  greater  than  Burt  or  Hamble 
was  Blancove — the  Sir  William  Blancove,  Baronet,  of  city 
feasts  and  charities,  who,  besides  being  a  wealthy  merchant, 
possessed  of  a  very  acute  head  for  banking,  was  a  scholarly 
gentleman,  worthy  of  riches.  His  brother  was  Squire  Blan- 
cove, of  Wrexby  ;  but  between  these  two  close  relatives  there 
existed  no  stronger  feeling  than  what  was  expressed  by  open 
contempt  of  a  mind  dedicated  to  business  on  the  one  side, 
and  quiet  contempt  of  a  life  devoted  to  indolence  on  the 
other.  Nevertheless,  Squire  Blancove,  though  everybody 
knew  how  deeply  he  despised  his  junior  for  his  city- 
gained  title  and  commercial  occupation,  sent  him  his 
son  Algernon,  to  get  the  youth  into  sound  discipline,  if 
possible.  This  was  after  the  elastic  Algernon  had,  on  the 
paternal  intimation  of  his  colonel,  relinquished  his  cornetoy 
and  military  service.  Sir  William  received  the  hopeful 
young  fellow  much  in  the  spirit  with  which  he  listened  to 
the  tales  of  his  brother's  comments  on  his  own  line  of  con- 
duct ;  that  is  to  say,  as  homage  to  his  intellectual  superiority. 
Mr.  Algernon  was  installed  in  the  Bank,  and  sat  down  for  a 
long  career  of  groaning  at  the  desk,  with  more  complacency 
than  was  expected  from  him.  Sir  William  forwarded  excel- 
lent accounts  to  his  brother  of  the  behaviour  of  the  heir  to 
his  estates.     It  was  his  way  of  rebuking  the  squire,  and  in 

d2 


36  KFTOPA  FLEMING. 

return  for  it  the  squire,  thouj^h  somewhat  comforted,  despised 
his  clei'kly  son,  and  lived  to  learn  how  very  unjustly  ho  did 
so.  Adolescents,  who  have  the  taste  for  rnnnin<if  into 
excesses,  enjoy  the  breath  of  change  as  another  form  of 
excitement :  change  is  a  sort  of  del)auL'h  to  them.  They  will 
delight  infinitely  in  a  simple  country  round  of  existence — in 
j)ropriety,  and  church-going — in  the  sensation  of  feeling 
innocent.  There  is  little  that  does  not  enrapture  them,  if 
vou  tie  them  down  to  notliina",  and  let  them  trv  all.  Sir 
William  was  deceived  by  his  ne])liew.  He  would  have  taken 
him  into  his  town-house  ;  but  his  own  son,  Edward,  who  was 
studying  for  the  Law,  had  chambers  in  the  Temple,  and. 
Algeinon,  receiving  an  invitation  fiom  Edward,  declared  a 
gentle  preference  for  the  abode  of  his  cousin.  His  allow- 
ance from  his  father  was  properly  contracted  to  keep  him 
from  excesses,  as  the  genius  of  his  senior  devised,  and  Sir 
William  saw  no  objection  to  the  scheme,  and  made  none. 
The  two  dined  with  him  about  twice  in  the  month. 

i]dward  Ulancove  was  three-and-twenty  years  old,  a  student 
by  fits,  and  a  young  man  given  to  be  moody.  He  had  powers 
of  gaiety  far  eclipsing  Algei-non's,  but  he  was  not  the  same 
easy  tripping  sinner  and  tlippant  soul.  He  was  in  that 
yeasty  contlition  of  his  years  when  action  and  reflection 
alternately  usurp  the  mind  ;  remorse  succeeded  dissipation, 
and  indulgences  offered  the  sopoiific  to  remorse.  The  friends 
of  the  two  imagined  that  Algeinon  was,  or  would  become, 
his  evil  genius.  In  reality,  Edward  was  the  perilous  com- 
panion. He  was  composed  of  better  stuff.  Algernon  was 
but  an  airy  animal  nature,  the  soul  within  him  being  an 
effeivescence  lightly  let  loose.  Edward  had  a  fatally  serious 
spirit,  and  one  of  some  strength.  What  he  gave  himself  up 
to,  he  could  believe  to  be  coi'rect,  in  the  teeth  of  an  oj)posing 
world,  xmtil  he  tired  of  it,  when  he  sided  as  heartily  with 
the  world  against  his  quondam  self,  Algernon  might  mis- 
lead, or  point  his  cousin's  passions  for  a  time ;  yet  if  they 
continued  their  courses  together,  there  was  danger  that 
Algernon  would  degenerate  into  a  reckless  subordinate — a 
minister,  a  valet,  and.  be  tempted  unknowingly  to  do  things 
in  earnest,  which  is  nothing  less  than  perdition  to  this  sort 
of  creature. 

But  the  key  to  young  men  is  the  ambition,  or,  in  the  place 
of  it,  the  romantic  sentiment  noui-ished  by  them.     Edward 


EDWARD  AND  ALGEENON.  37 

aspired  to  become  Attorney-General  of  these  realms,  not  a 
judge,  you  observe;  for  a  judge  is  to  the  imagination  of 
youthful  minds  a  stationary  being,  venerable,  but  not  active ; 
-whereas,  your  Attorney- General  is  always  in  the  fray,  and 
fights  commonly  on  the  winning  side,  a  point  that  renders 
his  position  attractive  to  sagacious  youth.  Algernon  had 
other  views.  Civilization  had  tried  him,  and  found  him 
wanting;  so  he  condemned  it.  Moreover,  sitting  now  all 
day  at  a  desk,  he  was  civilization's  drudge.  JS'o  wonder, 
then,  that  his  dream  was  of  prairies,  and  primeval  forests, 
and  Australian  wilds.  He  believed  in  his  heart  that  he 
would  be  a  man  new  made  over  there,  and  always  looked 
forward  to  savage  life  as  to  a  bath  that  would  cleanse  him, 
so  that  it  did  not  much  matter  his  being  unclean  for  the 
present. 

The  young  men  had  a  fair  cousin  by  marriage,  a  Mrs. 
Margaret  Lovell,  a  widow.  At  seventeen  she  had  gone  with 
her  husband  to  India,  where  Harry  Lovell  encountered  the 
sword  of  a  Sikh  Sirdar,  and  tried  the  last  of  his  much- 
vaunted  swordsmanship,  which,  with  his  skill  at  the  pistols, 
had  served  him  better  in  two  antecedent  duels,  for  the  vindi- 
cation of  his  lovely  and  terrible  young  wife.  He  perished 
on  the  field,  critically  admii-ing  the  stroke  to  which  he  owed 
his  death.  A  week  after  Harry's  burial  his  widow  was 
asked  in  marriage  by  his  colonel.  Captains,  and  a  giddy 
subaltern  likewise,  disputed  claims  to  possess  her.  She, 
however,  decided  to  arrest  further  bloodshed,  by  quitting 
the  regiment.  She  always  said  that  she  left  India  to  save 
her  complexion  ;  "  and  people  don't  know  how  very  candid  I 
am,"  she  added,  for  the  colonel  above-mentioned  was  wealthy 
^a  man  expectant  of  a  title,  and  a  good  match,  and  she  was 
laughed  at  when  she  thus  assigned  trivial  reasons  for  mo- 
mentous resolutions.  It  is  a  luxury  to  be  candid ;  and  perfect 
candour  can  do  more  for  us  than  a  dark  disguise. 

Mrs.  Lovell's  complexion  was  worth  saving  from  the 
ravages  of  an  Indian  climate,  and  the  persecution  of 
claimants  to  her  hand.  She  was  golden  and  white,  like  an 
autumnal  birch-tree — yellow  hair,  with  warm-toned  streaks 
in  it,  shading  a  fabulously  fair  skin.  Then,  too,  she  was 
tall,  of  a  nervous  build,  supple  and  proud  in  motion,  a 
brilliant  horsewoman,  and  a  most  distinguished  sitter  in  an 
easy  drawing-room  chair,  which  is,  let  me  impress  upon  you, 


38  unnoA  flemino. 

no  mean  quality.  After  riding  out  for  lionrs  -with  a  sweet 
coniraile,  ^vllo  lias  tin-own  the  mantle  of  (licriiity  half  way  off 
her  .slioulders,  it  is  pcrploxiiig,  and  mixed  strangely  of 
humiliation  and  ecstacy,  to  come  upon  her  clouded  majesty 
where  she  reclines  as  upon  rose-hued  clouds,  in  a  mystic 
ciirle  of  restriction  (she  who  laughed  at  your  jokes,  and 
capped  them,  two  hours  ago)  ;  a  queen. 

Uetween  Margaret  Lovell  and  Edward  there  was  a  mis- 
understanding, of  which  no  one  knew  the  natui-e,  for  they 
spoke  in  public  very  respectfully  one  of  the  other.  It  had 
been  supposed  that  they  were  lovers  once ;  but  when  lovers 
quarrel,  they  snarl,  they  bite,  they  worry  ;  their  eyes  are 
indeed  unveiled,  and  their  mouths  uiiniu/.zlcd.  Now  Mar- 
garet said  of  Ethvai'd :  "  He  is  sure  to  rise ;  he  has  such  good 
principles."  Edward  said  of  Margaret :  "  S1h>  only  wants  a 
husband  who  will  keep  her  well  in  hand."  These  sentences 
scarcely  cai'ried  actual  comj)liments  when  you  knew  the 
speakers  ;  but  outraged  lovers  cannot  talk  in  that  style  after 
they  have  broken  apart.  It  is  possible  that  Margaret  and 
Edwaid  conveyed  to  one  another  as  shaip  a  sting  as  en- 
venomed lovers  attempt.  Gossip  had  once  betrothed  them, 
but  was  now  at  fault.  The  lady  had  a  small  jointni'e,*and 
lived  partly  with  her  uncle.  Lord  Elling,  partly  with  .Squire 
Blancove,  her  aunt's  husband,  and  a  little  by  herself,  which 
was  Avhen  she  counted  money  in  her  pui-se,  and  chose  to 
assei't  her  independence.  She  had  a  name  in  the  world. 
Tliere  is  a  fate  attached  to  some  women,  from  Helen  of  Troy 
downward,  that  blood  is  to  be  shed  for  them.  One  duel  ou 
behalf  of  a  woman  is  a  reputation  to  her  for  life  ;  two  are 
notoriety.  If  she  is  very  young,  can  they  be  attributable  to 
her  ?  We  charge  them  naturally  to  her  overpowering 
beauty.  It  happened  that  Mrs.  Lovell  was  beautiful. 
Under  the  light  of  the  two  duels  her  beauty  shone  as 
from  an  illumination  of  black  flame.  Bovs  adored  Mrs. 
Lovell.  These  are  moths.  But  more,  the  birds  of  air,  nay, 
grave  owls  (who  stand  in  this  metaphor  for  whiskered  expe- 
rience) thronged,  dashing  at  the  ai)parition  of  terrible  splen- 
dour.    Was  it  her  fault  that  she  had  a  name  in  the  woi'ld  ? 

Mrs.  Margaret  Lovell's  portiait  hung  in  Edwiiid's  room. 
It  was  a  ])hotograph  exipiisitely  coloured,  and  was  on  the 
left  of  a  dark  Judith,  dark  with  a  serenity  of  sternness.  On 
the  right  hung  another  coloured  photograph  of  a  young  lady, 


EDWARD  AND  ALGERNON.  39 

also  fair  ;  and  it  was  a  point  of  taste  to  choose  between  them. 
Do  you  like  the  hollowed  lily's  cheeks,  or  the  plump  rose's  ? 
Do  yoTi  like  a  thinnish.  fall  of  golden  hair,  or  an  abundant 
cluster  of  nut-brown  ?  Do  you  like  your  blonde  with  limpid 
blue  eyes,  or  prefer  an  endowment  of  sunny  hazel  ?  Finally, 
are  you  taken  by  an  air  of  artistic  innocence  winding  ser- 
pentine about  your  heart's  fibres  ;  or  is  blushing  simplicity 
sweeter  to  you  ?  !Mrs.  Lovell's  eyebrows  were  the  faintly- 
marked  trace  of  a  perfect  arcb.  The  other  young  person's 
were  thickish,  more  level ;  a  full  brown  colour.  She  looked 
as  if  she  had  not  yet  attained  to  any  sense  of  her  being  a 
professed  beauty  :  but  the  fair  widow  was  clearly  bent  upon 
winning  you,  and  had  a  shy,  playful  intentness  of  aspect. 
Her  pui^e  white  skin  was  iiat  on  the  bone ;  the  lips  came 
forward  in  a  soft  curve,  and  if  they  were  not  artistically 
stained,  were  triumphantly  fresh.  Here,  in  any  case,  she 
beat  her  rival,  whose  mouth  had  the  plebeian  beauty's  fault 
of  being  too  straight  in  a  line,  and  was  not  trained,  appa- 
rently, to  tricks  of  dainty  pouting. 

It  was  morning,  and  the  cousins  having  sponged  in  plea- 
sant cold  water,  arranged  themselves  for  exercise,  and  came 
out  simultaneously  into  the  sitting-room,  slippered,  and  in 
tlannels.  They  nodded  and  went  througb  certain  curt 
gi-eetings,  and  then  Algernon  stepped  to  a  cupboard  and 
tossed  out  the  leather  gloves.  The  room  was  larg-e  and  they 
had  a  tolerable  space  for  the  work,  when  the  breakfast- 
table  had  been  drawn  a  little  on  one  side.  You  saw  at  a 
glance  which  was  the  likelier  man  of  the  two,  when  they 
stood  opposed.  Algernons  rounded  features,  full  lips  and 
falling  chin,  were  not  a  match,  though  he  was  quick  on  his 
feet,  for  the  wary,  prompt  eyes,  set  mouth,  and  hardness  oE 
Edward.  Both  had  stout  muscle,  but  in  Edward  there  was 
vigour  of  brain  as  well,  which  seemed  to  knit  and  inform 
his  shape :  without  which,  in  fact,  a  man  is  as  a  ship  under 
no  command.  Both  looked  their  best ;  as,  when  sparring, 
men  always  do  look. 

"Now,  then,"  said  Algernon,  squaring  up  to  his  cousin  in 
good  style,  "  now's  the  time  for  that  unwholesome  old  bny 
underneath  to  commence  groaning." 

"  Step  as  light  as  you  can,"  replied  Edward,  meeting  him 
with  the  pretty  motion  of  the  gloves. 

"  I'll  step  as  light  as  a  French  dancing- master.     Let's  go 


40  EHODA  PLKMINQ. 

to  Paris  and  learn  the  savate,  Ned.  It  mnst  be  a  new  sen- 
sation to  stand  on  one  leg  and  knock  a  fellow's  hat  off  with 
the  other." 

"  Stick  to  your  fists." 

*'  Hang  it !     I  wish  your  fists  wouldn't  stick  to  me  so.** 

*'  Yon  talk  too  much." 

"  'Gad,  I  don't  get  puffy  half  so  soon  as  you." 

"  I  want  country  air." 

*'  Ton  said  you  were  going  out,  old  Ned." 

"I  changed  my  mind." 

Saying  which,  Edward  shut  his  teeth,  and  talked  for  two 
or  three  hot  minutes  wholly  with  his  fists.  The  room  shook 
under  Algernon's  boundings  to  right  and  left,  till  a  blow 
sent  him  back  on  the  breakfast-table,  shattered  a  cup  on  the 
floor,  and  bespattered  his  close  flannel  shirt  with  a  funereal 
coffee-tinge. 

"  What  the  deuce  I  said  to  bring  that  on  myself,  I  don't 
know,"  Alerernon  remarked  as  he  rose.  "  Anything  con- 
nected wit'i  the  country  disagreeable  to  yon,  Ked  ?  Come! 
a  bout  of  quiet  scientific  boxing,  and  none  of  these  beastly 
rushes,  as  if  you  were  singling  me  out  of  a  crowd  of  mags- 
men.  Did  you  go  to  church  yesterday,  Ned  ?  Confound  it, 
you're  on  me  again,  are  you !" 

And  Algernon  went  on  spouting  unintelligible  talk  under 
a  torrent  of  blows.  He  lost  his  temper  and  fought  out  at 
them;  but  as  it  speedily  became  evident  to  him  that  the 
loss  laid  him  open  to  punishment,  he  prudently  recovered  it, 
sparred,  danced  about,  and  contrived  to  shake  the  room  in 
a  manner  that  caused  Edward  to  drop  his  arms,  in  con- 
sideration for  the  distracted  occupant  of  the  chambers  below. 
Algernon  accepted  the  truce,  and  made  it  peace  by  casting 
off  one  glove. 

"  Tlierc  !  that's  a  pleasant  morning  breather,"  he  said, 
and  sauntered  to  the  window  to  look  at  the  river.  "  I  always 
feel  the  want  of  it  when  I  don't  get  it.  1  could  take  a 
thrashing  rather  than  not  on  with  the  gloves  to  begin  the 
day.  Look  at  those  boats  !  Fancy  my  having  to  go  down 
to  the  city.  It  makes  me  feel  like  my  blood  circulating  the 
wrong  way.  My  father'll  suffer  some  day,  for  keeping  me 
at  this  low  ebb  of  cash,  by  jingo  !" 

lie  uttered  this  with  a  projjhetic  fierceness. 

"  I  cannot  even  scrape  together  enough  for  entrance  money 


EDWARD  AND  ALGEENON.  41 

to  a  Club.  It's  sickening  !  I  wonder  whether  I  shall  ever 
get  used  to  banking  work  ?  There's  an  old  clerk  in  our 
office  who  says  he  should  feel  ill  if  he  missed  a  day.  And 
the  old  porter  beats  him — bangs  him  to  fits.  I  believe  he'd 
die  off  if  he  didn't  see  the  house  open  to  the  minute.  They 
say  that  old  boy's  got  a  pretty  niece  ;  but  he  don't  bring  her 
to  the  office  now.  Rewai'd  of  merit! — Mr.  Anthony  Hackbut 
is  going  to  receive  ten  pounds  a  year  extra.  That's  for  his 
honesty.  I  wonder  whether  I  could  earn  a  reputation  for 
the  sake  of  a  prospect  of  ten  extra  pounds  to  my  salary.  Pve 
got  a  salary  !  hurrah  !  But  if  they  keep  me  to  my  hundred 
and  fifty  per  annum,  don't  let  them  trust  me  every  day  with 
the  bags,  as  they  do  that  old  fellow.  Some  of  the  men  say 
he's  good  to  lend  fifty  pounds  at  a  pinch. — Are  the  chops 
coming,  Ned  ?" 

"  The  chops  are  coming,"  said  Edward,  who  had  thrown 
on  a  boating-coat  and  plunged  into  a  book,  and  spoke 
echoing. 

"  Here's  little  Peggy  Lovell."  Algernon  faced  this  por- 
trait. "  It  don't  do  her  justice.  She's  got  more  life,  more 
change  in  her,  more  fire.     She's  starting  for  town,  I  hear." 

"  She  is  starting  for  town,"  said  Edward. 

"  How  do  yoi^  know  that  ?"  Algernon  swung  about  to  ask. 

Edward  looked  round  to  him.  "  By  the  fact  of  your  not 
having  fished  for  a  holiday  this  week.  How  did  you  leave 
her  yesterday,  Algy  ?     Quite  well,  I  hope." 

The  ingenuous  face  of  the  young  gentleman  crimsoned. 

"Oh,  she  was  well,"  he  said.  "Ha!  I  see  there  can  be 
some  attraction  in  your  dark  women." 

"  You  mean  that  Judith  ?  Yes,  she's  a  good  diversion." 
Edward  gave  a  two-edged  response.  "  What  train  did  you 
come  up  by  last  night  '?" 

"  The  last  from  Wrexby.  That  reminds  me :  I  saw  a 
young  Judith  just  as  I  got  out.  She  wanted  a  cab.  I  called 
it  for  her.  She  belongs  to  old  Hackbut  of  the  Bank — the 
old  porter,  you  know.  If  it  wasn't  that  there's  always  some- 
thing about  dark  women  which  makes  me  think  they'i'e 
going  to  have  a  moustache,  I  should  take  to  that  giil  s 
face." 

Edward  launched  forth  an  invective  against  fair  women. 

"  What  have  they  done  to  you — what  have  they  done  ?'* 
said  Algernon. 


EHODA  FI.EMTNO. 

"  My  f^ood  fellow,  tlio^'Vc  nothing'  but  colour.  TlicyVeno 
conscience.  It"  thej  swear  a  ihinjif  to  you  one  moment,  they 
break  it  the  next.  They  can't  help  doing  it.  You  don't  ask 
a  gilt  weathercock  to  keep  faith  Avith  anything  but  the  wind, 
do  you  ?  It's  an  ass  that  trusts  a  fair  woman  at  all,  or  hfis 
anything  to  do  with  the  confounded  set.  Cleopatra  was  fair ; 
so  was  Delilah;  so  is  the  Devil's  wife.  Reach  me  that  book 
of  Reports." 

"  By  jingo  !"  cried  Algernon,  "  my  stomacb  reports  that  if 

provision  doesn't  soon  approach Why  don't  you  keep  a 

French  cook  here,  Ned  Y     Let's  give  up  the  women,  and  take 
to  a  French  cook." 

Edward  yawned  horribly.  "  All  in  good  time.  It's  what 
we  come  to.  It's  philosophy — your  French  cook!  I  wish  I 
had  it,  or  him.  I'm  afraid  a  fellow  can't  anticipate  his 
years — not  so  lacky  !" 

"  By  Jove  !  we  shall  have  to  be  philosophers  before  we 
breakfast !"  Algernon  exclaimed.  "  It's  nine.  I've  to  be 
tied  to  the  stake  at  ten,  chained  and  muzzled — a  leetle — a 
dawg  !  I  wish  I  hadn't  had  to  leave  the  service.  It  was  a 
vile  conspiracy  against  me  there,  Ned.  Hang  all  tradesmen ! 
I  sit  on  a  stool,  and  add  up  tigui-es.  I  work  haidei-  than  a 
nigger  in  the  office.  That's  my  life  :  but  I  must  feed.  It's 
no  use  going  to  the  ofRce  in  a  rage." 

"  Will  you  try  on  the  gloves  again  ?"  was  Edward's  mild 
suggestion. 

Algernon  thanked  him,  and  replied  that  he  knew  him. 
Edwai'd  hit  hard  when  he  was  empty. 

They  now  affected  patience,  as  far  as  silence  went  to  make 
up  an  element  of  that  sublime  quality.  The  chops  arriving, 
they  disdained  the  mask.  Algernon  fired  his  glove  just 
over  the  waiter's  head,  and  Edward  put  the  case  to  his 
conscience ;  after  which  they  sat  and  ate,  talking  little. 
The  difference  between  them  was,  that  Edward  knew  the 
state  of  Algernon's  mind,  and  what  was  working  within 
it,  while  the  latter  stared  at  a  blank  wall  as  regarded 
Edward's. 

"  Going  out  after  breakfast,  Ned  ?"  said  Algernon,  quietly. 
"We'll  walk  to  the  city  together,  if  you  like." 

Edwai-d  fixed  one  of  his  intent  looks  upon  his  cousin 
**  You're  not  going  to  the  city  to-day  "r"' 


EDWAED  AND  ALGERNON.  43 

"  The  clence,  I'm  not !" 

"  You're  going  to  dance  attendance  on  Mrs.  Lovell,  wliom 
it's  your  pleasure  to  call  Peggy,  when  you're  some  leagues 
out  of  her  hearing." 

Algernon  failed  to  command  his  countenance.  He  glanced 
at  one  of  the  portraits,  and  said,  "  Who  is  that  girl  up  there  ? 
Tell  us  her  name.  Talking  of  Mrs.  Lovell,  has  she  ever 
seen  it  ? 

"  If  you'll  put  on  your  coat,  my  dear  Algy,  I  will  talk  to 
you  about  Mrs.  Lovell."  Edward  kept  his  penetrative  eyes 
on  Algernon.     "  Listen  to  me  :  you'll  get  into  a  mess  there." 

"  If  I  must  listen,  Ned,  I'll  listen  in  my  shirt-sleeves, 
with  all  respect  to  the  lady." 

"  Very  well.  The  shirt-sleeves  help  the  air  of  bravado. 
Ifow,  you  know  that  I've  what  they  call  '  knelt  at  her  feet.* 
She's  handsome.  Don't  cry  out.  She's  dashing,  and  as 
near  being  a  devil  as  any  woman  I  ever  met.  Do  you  know 
why  we  broke?  I'll  tell  you.  Plainly,  because  I  refused 
to  believe  that  one  of  her  men  had  insulted  her.  You 
understand  what  that  means.  I  declined  to  be  a  chief  party 
in  a  scandal." 

"  Declined  to  fight  the  fellow  ?"  interposed  Algernon. 
"  More  shame  to  you !" 

"  I  think  you're  a  year  younger  than  I  am,  Algy.  You 
have  the  privilege  of.  speaking  with  that  year's  simplicity. 
Mrs.  Lovell  will  play  you  as  she  played  me.  I  acknowledge 
her  power,  and  I  keep  out  of  her  way.  I  don't  bet ;  I  don't 
care  to  waltz  ;  I  can't  keep  horses ;  so  I  don't  lose  much  by 
the  privation  to  which  I  subject  myself." 

"  I  bet,  I  waltz,  and  I  ride.  So,"  said  Algernon,  *'  I  should 
lose  tremendously." 

"  You  will  lose,  mark  my  words." 

"  Is  the  lecture  of  my  year's  senior  concluded  ?"  said 
Algernon. 

"  Yes  ;  I've  done,"  Edward  answered. 

"  Then  I'll  put  on  my  coat,  ISTed,  and  I'll  smoke  in  it. 
That'll  giv^e  you  assurance  I'm  not  going  near  Mrs.  Lovell, 
if  anything  will." 

"  that  gives  me  assurance  that  Mrs.  Lovell  tolerates  in 
you  what  she  detests,"  said  Edward,  relentless  in  his  in- 
sight ;  "  and,  consequently,  gives  me  assurance  that  she  finds 
you  of  particular  service  to  her  at  present." 


44  EHOnA  FLEMIXa. 

AlcomoTi  lifid  a  lielitcrl  mafrh  in  his  liand.  He.  fluno:  it 
into  tlio  fire.  "  I'm  hanijod  if  T  don't  tliiiik  you  have  the 
confounded  vanity  to  suppose  she  sets   me  as  a  spy  upon 

you!" 

A  .smile  ran  along  Edward's  lips.  "I  don't  think  you'd 
know  it,  if  she  did." 

"  Oh,  you're  ten  years  older ;  you're  twenty,"  bawled 
Altrernon,  in  an  extremity  of  disjirnst.  "Don't  I  know  what 
game  you're  following  up  ?  Isn't  it  clear  as  day  you've  got 
another  woman  in  your  eye  ?" 

"  It's  as  clear  as  day,  my  good  Algy,  that  you  see  a  por- 
trait hanging  in  my  chambers,  and  you  have  heard  j\Irs. 
Lovell's  opinion  of  the  fact.  So  much  is  perfectly  clear. 
There's  my  hand.  I  don't  blame  you.  She's  a  clever 
woman,  and  like  many  of  the  sort,  shrewd  at  guessing  the 
worst.  Come,  take  my  hand.  I  tell  you,  I  don't  blame  you. 
I've  been  little  dog  to  her  myself,  and  fetched  and  carried, 
and  waeged  my  tail.  It's  charming  while  it  lasts.  Will 
you  shake  it  ?" 

"  Your  tail,  man  ?"  Algernon  roared  in  pretended  amaze- 
ment. 

Edward  eased  Mm  back  to  friendliness  by  laughing. 
*No/,  my  hand." 

They  shook  hands. 

"All  right,"  said  Algernon.  "You  mean  well.  It's  very 
■well  for  you  to  preach  virtue  to  a  poor  devil ;  you've  got 
loo'-e,  or  you're  regularly  in  love." 

"Virtue!  by  heaven!"  Edward  cried;  "I  Tvish  I  were 
entitled  to  preach  it  to  any  man  on  earth." 

His  face  flushed.     "  There,  good-bye,  old  fellow,"  he  added. 

"  Go  to  the  city.  I'll  dine  with  you  to-night,  if  you  like  ; 
come  and  dine  with  me  at  my  Club.     I  shall  be  disengaged." 

Algernon  mumliled  a  flexible  assent  to  an  ajiiiointment 
at  Edward's  Club,  dressed  himself  with  care,  borrowed  a 
sovereign,  for  which  he  nodded  his  acceptance,  and  left  him. 

Edward  set  his  brain  upon  a  book  of  law. 

It  may  have  been  two  hours  after  he  had  sat  thus  in  his 
Cistercian  stillness,  when  a  letter  was  delivered  to  him  by 
one  of  the  Inn  porters.  Edward  read  the  superscri])ti(m, 
and  asked  the  porter  who  it  was  that  brought  it.  Two 
young  ladies,  the  porter  said. 

These  were  the  contents :— 


EDWARD  AND  ALGERNON.  45 

**  I  am  not  sure  that  you  will  ever  forgive  me.  I  cannot 
forgive  myself  when  I  think  of  that  one  word  I  -n-as  obliged 
to  speak  to  you  in  the  cold  street,  and  nothing  to  explain 
why,  and  how  much  I  love  you.  Oh !  how  I  love  you ! 
I  cry  while  I  write.  I  cannot  help  it.  I  was  a  sop  of  tears 
all  night  long,  and  oh  !  if  you  had  seen  my  face  in  the 
morning.  I  am  thankful  you  did  not.  Mother's  Bible 
brought  me  home.  It  must  have  been  guidance,  for  in  my 
bed  there  lay  my  sister,  and  I  could  not  leave  her,  I  love  her 
so.  I  could  not  have  got  down  stairs  again  after  seeing  her 
there ;  and  I  had  to  say  that  cold  word  and  shut  the  window 
on  you.  May  I  call  you  Edward  still  ?  Oh,  dear  Edward,  dc 
make  allowance  for  me.  Write  kindly  to  me.  Say  you  forgive 
me.  I  feel  like  a  ghost  to-day.  My  life  seems  quite  behind 
me  somewhere,  and  I  hardly  feel  anything  I  touch.  I  declare 
to  you,  dearest  one,  I  had  no  idea  my  sister  was  here.  I  was 
surprised  when  I  heard  her  name  mentioned  by  my  landlady, 
and  looked  on  the  bed ;  suddealy  my  strength  was  gone,  and 
it  changed  all  that  I  was  thinking.  I  never  knew  before  that 
women  were  so  weak,  but  now  I  see  they  are,  and  I  only 
know  I  am  at  my  Edward's  mercy,  and  am  stupid  !  Oh,  so 
wretched  and  stupid.  I  shall  not  touch  food  till  I  hear  from 
you.  Oh,  if  you  are  angrj-,  winte  so ;  but  do  write.  My 
suspense  would  make  you  pity  me.  I  know  I  deserve  your 
anger.  It  was  not  that  I  do  not  trust  you,  Edward.  My 
mother  in  heaven  sees  my  heart  and  that  I  trust,  I  ti-ust 
my  heart  and  everything  I  am  and  have  to  you.  I  would 
almost  wish  and  wait  to  see  you  to  day  in  the  Gardens,  but 
my  crying  has  made  me  such  a  streaked  thing  to  look  at.  If 
I  had  rubbed  my  face  with  a  scrubbing-bn  sh,  I  could  not 
look  worse,  and  I  cannot  risk  your  seeing  me.  It  would 
excuse  you  for  hating  me.  Do  you  ?  Does  he  hate  her  r 
She  loves  you.  She  would  die  for  you,  dear  Edward.  Oh  ! 
I  feel  that  if  I  was  told  to-day  that  I  should  die  for  you 
to-mori'ow,  it  would  be  happiness.  I  am  dying — yes,  I  am 
dying  till  1  hear  from  you. 

"  Believe  me, 
"  Tour  tender,  loving,  broken-hearted, 

"Dahlia." 

There  was  a  postscript : — 

**  May  I  still  go  to  lessons  ?'* 


46  EHODA  FLEMING. 

Edward  finished  tlie  letter  with  a  calmly  perusing  eye.  Ho 
had  winced  triflingly  at  one  or  two  expressions  contained  in 
it ;  forcible,  perhaps,  but  not  such  as  Mrs.  Lovell  smiling 
from  the  wall  yonder  would  have  used. 

"  The  poor  cliild  threatens  to  eat  no  dinner,  if  I  don't  write 
to  her,"  he  said  ;  and  replied  in  a  kind  and  magnanimous 
spirit,  concluding — "  Go  to  lessons,  by  all  means." 

lliiving  aceomplishcd  this,  he  stood  up,  and  by  hazard  fell 
to  comparing  the  rival  portraits  ;  a  melaneholy  and  a  comic 
thmrr  to  do,  as  you  will  find  if  you  put  two  ])aiiited  heads 
side"^by  side,  and  set  their  merits  contesting,  and  reflect  on 
the  contest,  and  to  what  advantages,  personal,  or  of  the 
artist's,  the  winner  owes  the  victory.  Dalilia  had  been 
admirably  dealt  with  by  the  artist ;  the  charm  of  pure  in- 
genuousness without  rusticity  was  visible  in  her  face  and 
fifjure.  Hanging  there  on  the  waH,  she  was  a  match  for 
Mrs.  Lovell. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

GREAT  NEWS  FROM  DAHLIA. 


RnODA  returned  home  the  heavier  for  a  secret  that  she 
bore  with  her.  All  thiough  the  first  night  of  her  sleeping  in 
London,  Dahlia's  sobs,  and  tender  hugs,  and  self-reproaches, 
had  penetrated  her  dreams,  and  when  the  morning  came  she 
had  scarcely  to  learn  that  Dahlia  loved  some  one.  The  con- 
fession was  made;  but  his  name  was  reserved.  Dahlia 
spoke  of  him  with  such  sacreduess  of  respect  that  she 
seemed  lost  in  him,  and  like  a  creature  kissing  his  feet. 
With  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  and  with  moans  of 
anguish,  she  spoke  of  the  deliciousness  of  loving :  of  know- 
ino-  one  to  whom  she  abandoned  her  will  and  her  destiny, 
until,  seeing  how  beautiful  a  bloum  love  threw  upon  the 
tearful  worn  face  of  her  sister,  ilhoda  was  imi)i-essed  by  a 
mystical  veneration  for  this  man,  and  readily  believed  him 
to  be  above  all  other  men,  if  not  superhuman  :  for  she  was 
of  an  age  and  an  imagination  to  conceive  a  spiritual  pre- 
eminence over  the  weakness  of  mortality.  She  thought  that 
one  who  could  so  transform  her  sister,  touch  her  with  awe. 


GREAT  NEWS  PROM  DAHLIA.  47 

and  give  her  gracefulness  and  liumilitj,  must  be  what  Dahlia 
said  he  was.  She  asked  shyly  for  his  Christian  name  ;  but 
even  so  little  Dahlia  withheld.  It  was  his  wish  that  Dahlia 
should  keep  silence  concerning  him. 

"  Ha.ve  you  sworn  an  oath  ?"  said  Rhoda,  wonderingly. 

"  No,  dear  love,"  Dahlia  replied ;  "  he  only  mentioned  what 
lie  desired." 

Rhoda  was  ashamed  of  herself  for  thinking  it  strange,  and 
she  surrendered  her  judgement  to  be  stamped  by  the  one 
who  knew  him  well. 

As  regarded  her  uncle,  Dahlia  admitted  that  she  had 
behaved  forgetfully  and  unkindly,  and  promised  amendment. 
She  talked  of  the  Farm  as  of  an  old  ruin,  with  nothing  but 
a  thin  shade  of  memory  threading  its  walls,  and  appeared  to 
marvel  vaguely  that  it  stood  yet.  "  Father  shall  not  always 
want  money,"  she  said.  She  was  particular  in  prescribing 
books  for  Rhoda  to  read  ;  good  authors,  she  emphasized,  and 
named  books  of  history,  and  poets,  and  quoted  their  verses. 
"  For  my  darling  will  some  day  have  a  dear  husband,  and  he 
must  not  look  down  on  her."  Rhoda  shook  her  head,  full 
sure  that  she  could  never  be  brought  to  utter  such  musical 
words  naturally.  "  Yes,  dearest,  when  you  know  what  love 
is,"  said  Dahlia,  in  an  underbreath. 

Could  Robert  inspire  her  with  the  power  ?  Rhoda  looked 
npon  that  poor  homely  young  man  half-curiously  when  she 
returned,  and  quite  dismissed  the  notion.  Besides  she  had 
no  feeling  for  herself.  Her  passion  was  fixed  upon  her 
sister,  whose  record  of  emotions  in  the  letters  from  London 
placed  her  beyond  dull  days  and  nights.  The  letters  struck 
many  chords.  A  less  subservient  reader  would  have  set 
them  down  as  variations  of  the  language  of  infatuation  ;  but 
Rhoda  was  responsive  to  every  word  and  change  of  mood, 
from  the,  "I  am  unworthy,  degraded,  wretched,"  to  "I  am 
blest  above  the  angels."  If  one  letter  said,  "  We  met  yester- 
day," Rhoda's  heart  beat  on  to  the  question,  "  Shall  I  see 
him  again  to  morrow  ?"  And  will  she  see  him  ? — has  she 
seen  him  ? — agitated  her  and  absorbed  her  thoughts. 

So  humbly  did  she  follow  her  sister,  without  daring  to 
forecast  a  prospect  for  her,  or  dream  of  an  issue,  that  when 
on  a  summer  morning  a  letter  was  brought  in  at  the  break- 
fast-table, marked  '  urgent  and  private,'  she  opened  it,  and 


48  EHODA  FLEMINQ. 

the  first  line  dazzled  her  eyes — the  surprise  was  a  shock  to 
her  brain.     She  rose  from  her  unfinished  meal,  and  walked 
out  into  the  wide  air,  lueliug  as  if  she  walked  on  thunder. 
The  letter  ran  thus  : — 

"My  own  Innocknt! 

"I  am  married.  We  leave  Enq'land  to-day.  I  must  not 
love  you  too  much,  for  I  have  all  my  love  to  give  to  my 
Edward,  my  own  now,  and  I  am  his  trustiiiti'ly  for  ever. 
But  he  will  let  me  give  you  some  of  it — and  lllioda  is  never 
jealous.  She  shall  have  a  great  deal.  Only  1  am  frightened 
when  I  think  how  immense  my  love  is  for  him,  so  that  any- 
thing— everything  he  thinks  right  is  right  to  me.  I  am  not 
afraid  to  think  so.  If  I  were  to  try,  a  cloud  would  come 
over  me — it  does,  if  only  I  fancy  for  half  a  moment  I  am 
rash,  and  a  straw.  I  cannot  exist  excejit  through  him.  So 
I  must  belong  to  him,  and  his  will  is  my  law.  My  prayer 
at  my  bedside  every  night  is  that  I  may  die  for  him.  We 
used  to  think  the  idea  of  death  so  terrible!  Do  you  remember 
how  we  iised  to  shudder  togetliei'  at  night  when  we  thought 
of  people  lying  in  the  grave  ?  And  now,  when  I  think  that 
perhaps  I  may  some  day  die  for  him,  I  feel  like  a  crying  in 
my  heart  with  joy. 

"  I  have  left  a  letter — sent  it,  I  mean — enclosed  to  uncle 
for  father.  He  will  see  Edward  by-and-by.  Oh !  may 
heaven  spare  him  from  any  grief.  Rhoda  will  comfort  him. 
Tell  him  hosv  devoted  I  am.  I  am  like  drowned  to  every- 
body but  one. 

"  We  are  looking  on  the  sea.  In  half  an  hour  I  shall  have 
Forgotten  the  tread  of  English  eai  th.  1  do  nut  know  that  I 
breathe.  All  1  know  is  a  fear  that  I  am  Hying,  and  my 
strength  will  not  continue.  That  is  when  I  am  not  touching 
his  hand.  There  is  France  opposite.  I  shut  my  eyes  and  see 
the  whole  country,  but  it  is  like  what  I  feel  for  Edward — all 
in  dark  moonlight.  Oh!  I  trust  him  so!  I  bleed  for  him.  I 
?ould  77itike  all  my  veins  bleed  out  at  a  .sad  thought  about 
him.  And  from  France  to  Switzerland  and  Italy.  The  sea 
sparkles  just  as  if  it  said  '  Come  to  the  sun  ;'  and  I  am  going. 
Edward  calls.  Shall  I  be  punished  for  so  much  hapjiiness  ? 
[  am  too  happy,  I  am  too  happy. 

"  God  bless  my  beloved  at  home  I  That  is  my  chief  prayer 
aow.     1  shall  think  of  her  when  I  am  in  the  cathedi'ala. 


GEE  AT  NEWS  FROM  DAHLIA.  49 

"  Oh,  my  Father  in  heaven !  bless  them  all !  bless  Rhoda ! 
forgive  me ! 

"  I  can  hear  the  steam  of  the  steamer  at  the  pier.     Here 
is  Edward.     He  says  1  may  send  his  love  to  you. 
"  Address : — 

"Mrs.  Edward  Ayrton, 
"  "Poste  Restante, 
"  Lausanne, 

"  Switzerland. 

"  P.S. — Lausanne  is  where — but  another  time,  and  I  will 
always  tell  yon  the  history  of  the  places  to  instruct  yon, 
poor  heart  in  dull  England.  Adieu  !  Good-bye  and  God 
bless  my  innocent  at  home,  my  dear  sister.  I  love  her.  I 
never  can  forget  her.  The  day  is  so  lovely.  It  seems  on 
purpose  for  us.  Be  sure  you  write  on  thin  paper  to  Lausanne. 
It  is  on  a  blue  lake ;  you  see  snow  mountains,  and  now  there 
is  a  bell  ringing — kisses  from  me  !  we  start.     I  must  sign. 


"  Dahlia." 

By  the  reading  of  this  letter,  Rhoda  was  caught  vividly  to 
the  shore,  and  saw  her  sister  borne  away  in  the  boat  to  the 
strange  countries  ;  she  travelled  with  her,  following  her  with 
gliding  speed  through  a  multiplicity  of  shifting  scenes,  opal 
landscapes,  full  of  fire  and  dreams,  and  in  all  of  them  a  great 
bell  towered.  "Oh,  my  sweet!  my  own  beauty!"  she  cried 
in  Dahlia's  language.  Meeting  Mrs.  Sumfit,  she  called  her 
"Mother  Dumpling,"  as  Dahlia  did  of  old,  affectionately, 
and  kissed  her,  and  ran  on  to  Master  Gammon,  who  was 
tramping  leisurely  on  to  the  oatfield  lying  on  toward  the 
millholms. 

"  My  sister  sends  yon  her  love,"  she  said  brightly  to  the 
old  man.  Master  Gammon  responded  with  no  remarkable 
flash  of  his  eyes,  and  merely  opened  his  mouth  and  shut  it, 
as  when  a  duck  divides  its  bill,  but  fails  to  emit  the  custom- 
ary quack. 

"  And  to  yon,  little  pigs  ;  and  to  you.  Mulberry ,  and  you, 
Dapple  ;  and  you,  and  yon,  and  you." 

Rhoda  nodded  round  to  all  the  citizens  of  the  farmyard ; 
and  so  eased  her  heart  of  its  laughing  bubbles.  After  which, 
she  fell  to  a  meditative  walk  of    demurer  joy,  and  had  a 


60  EUODA  rLKMlNO. 

regret.  It  was  simply  that  Dalilia's  hurry  in  signing  the 
letter,  had  rol)l)c(l  licr  of  the  delight  of  seeing  "  Dahlia 
Ayrton  "  writti-n  ])rou(lly  out,  with  its  wonderful  signifi- 
cation of  the  chaiigo  in  her  life. 

That  was  a  trifling  matter;  yet  Rhoda  felt  the  letter  was 
not  complete  in  the  al)scnce  of  the  biidal  name.  She  fancied 
Dalilia  to  have  meant,  pei-hap.s,  that  she  was  Dahlia  to  her 
as  of  old, and  not  a  stranger.  "Dahlia ever;  Dahlia  nothing 
else  for  you,"  she  heard  her  sister  say.  But  how  delicious 
and  mournful,  how  terrible  and  sweet  with  moaning  would 
"  Dahlia  Ayrton,"  the  new  name  in  the  dear  handwiitiug, 
have  looked !  "  And  I  have  a  brothei'-in-law,"  she  thought, 
and  her  cheeks  tingled.  The  banks  of  fern  and  foxglove, 
and  the  green  young  oaks  fringing  the  cop.se,  gi-ew  rich  in 
colour,  as  she  reflected  that  this  beloved  unknown  husband 
of  her  sister  embi-aced  her  and  her  father  as  well ;  even  the 
old  bent  beggarman  on  the  sandy  ridge,  though  he  had  a 
starved  frame  and  carried  pitiless  faggots,  stood  illumined 
in  a  soft  warmth.     Ilhoda  could  not  go  back  to  the  house. 

It  chanced  that  the  farmer  that  morning  had  been  smitten 
■with  the  virtue  of  his  wife's  opinion  of  liobert,  and  her 
parting  recommendation  concerning  him. 

"  Have  you  a  mind  to  either  one  of  my  two  girls  V"  he 
put  the  r|nestion  bluntly,  finding  himself  alone  with  Hobert. 

R  'bcrt  took  a  quick  breath,  and  replied,  "  I  have." 

''  Then  make  your  choice,"  said  the  farmer,  and  tried  to  go 
about  his  business,  but  hung  near  Robert  in  the  fields  till  he 
had  asked :  "  Which  one  is  it,  my  boy  ?  " 

Robert  turned  a  blade  of  wheat  in  his  mouth. 

"  I  tliink  I  shall  leave  her  to  tell  that,"  was  his  answer. 

"  Why,  don't  ye  know  which  one  you  prefer  to  choose, 
man  ?"  quoth  Mr.  Fleming. 

"  I  mayn't  know  whether  she  prefers  to  choose  me,"  said 
Roliei't. 

The  farmer  smiled. 

"  You  never  can  exactly  reckon  about  them  ;  that's  true." 

He  was  led  to  think:  "Dahlia's  the  lass;"  seeing  that 
Robert  had  not  had  many  oppox-tunities  of  speaking  with 
her. 

"  When  my  girls  are  wives,  they'll  do  their  work  in  the 
house,"  he  pursued.  "  They  may  have  a  little  bit  o'  pro])ei-ty 
in  land,  ye  know,  and  they  may  have  a  share  in — in  gold. 


GREAT  NEWS  PEOM  DAHLIA.  51 

That's  not  to  be  reckoned  on.  We're  an  old  family,  Eobert, 
and  I  suppose  we've  our  pride  somewhere  down.  Anyhow, 
you  can't  look  on  my  girls  and  not  own  they're  superior 
girls.  I've  no  notion  of  forcing  them  to  clean,  and  dish  up, 
and  do  dairying,  if  it's  not  to  their  turn.  They're  handy 
with  th'  needle.  They  dress  conformably,  and  do  the  mil- 
linery themselves.  And  I  know  they  say  their  prayers  of  a 
night.  That  I  know,  if  that's  a  comfort  to  ye,  and  it  should 
be,  Kobert.  For  pray,  and  you  can't  go  far  wrong ;  and  it's 
particularly  good  for  girls.     I'll  say  no  more." 

At  the  dinner-table,  Rhoda  was  not  present.  Mr.  Fleming 
fidgeted,  blamed  her  and  excused  her,  but  as  Robert 
appeared  indifferent  about  her  absence,  he  was  confirmed  in 
his  idea  that  Dahlia  attracted  his  fancy. 

They  had  finished  dinner,  and  Master  Gammon  had  risen, 
when  a  voice  immediately  recognized  as  the  voice  of  Anthony 
Hackbut  was  heard  in  the  front  part  of  the  house.  Mr. 
Fleming  went  round  to  him  with  a  dismayed  face. 

"  Lord  !  "  said  Mrs.  Sumfit,  "  how  I  tremble  !  " 

Robert,  too,  looked  grave,  and  got  away  from  the  house. 
The  dread  of  evil  news  of  Dahlia  was  common  to  them  all ; 
yet  none  had  mentioned  it,  Robert  conceiving  that  it  would 
be  impertinence  on  his  part  to  do  so,  the  farmer,  that  the 
policy  of  permitting  Dahlia's  continued  residence  in  London 
concealed  the  peril ;  while  Mrs.  Sumfit  flatly  defied  the 
threatening  of  a  mischance  to  one  so  sweet  and  fair,  and  her 
favourite.  It  is  the  insincerity  of  persons  of  their  class  ;  but 
one  need  not  lay  stress  on  the  wilfulness  of  uneducated  minds. 
Robert  walked  across  the  fields,  walking  like  a  man  with  an 
object  in  view.  As  he  dropped  into  one  of  the  close  lanes 
■which  led  up  to  Wrexby  Hall,  he  saw  Rhoda  standing  under 
an  oak,  her  white  morning-dress  covered  with  sun-spots. 
His  impulse  was  to  turn  back,  the  problem,  how  to  speak  to 
her,  not  being  settled  within  him.  But  the  next  moment  his 
blood  chilled ;  for  he  had  perceived,  though  he  had  not  felt 
simultaneously,  that  two  gentlemen  were  standing  near  her, 
addressing  her.  And  it  was  likewise  manifest  that  she 
listened  to  them.  These  presently  raised  their  hats  and  dis- 
appeared.    Rhoda  came  on  toward  Robert. 

"  You  have  forgotten  your  dinner,"  he  said,  with  a  queer 
sense  of  shame  at  dragging  in  the  mention  of  that  meal. 

"I  have  been  too  happy  to  eat,"  Rhoda  replied. 

^2 


52  EHODA  FLEMING. 

Robert  glanced  np  the  lane,  but  she  gave  no  heed  to  thia 
indication,  and  asked  :  "  Has  uncle  come  ?  " 

"  Did  you  expect  him  ?" 

"  I  thought  he  would  come." 

"  What  has  made  you  happy  ?** 

"Yon  will  h(>ar  from  uncle." 

"  Shall  I  go  and  hear  what  those " 

Kobert  checked  himself,  but  it  would  have  been  better  had 
he  spoken  out.  Klioda's  face  from  a  light  of  interrogation 
lowered  its  look  to  contemj)t. 

She  did  not  aft'ect  the  feminine  simplicity  which  can  so 
prettily  misunderstand  and  ])ut  by  an  implied  accusation  of 
thafc  nature.  Doubtless  her  sharp  instinct  served  her  by 
telling  her  that  her  contem])t  would  hui-t  him  shrewdly 
now.  The  foolishness  of  a  man  ha^nng  much  to  say  to  a 
•woman,  and  not  knowing  how  well,  or  whei-e  the  beginning 
of  it  might  be,  was  perceptible  about  him.  A  shout  from 
her  father  at  the  o]ien  garden-gate,  hurried  on  Rhoda  to 
meet  him.     Old  Anthony  was  at  ^Ir.  Fleming's  elbow. 

"You  know  it?  You  have  her  letter,  father?"  said 
Rhoda,  gaily,  beneath  the  shadow  of  his  forehead. 

"  And  a  Queen  of  the  Egyptians  is  what  you  might  have 
been,"  said  Anthony,  with  a  speculating  eye  upon  Kiioda's 
dark  bright  face. 

Rhoda  put  out  her  hand  to  him,  but  kept  her  gaze  on  her 
father. 

William  Fleming  relaxed  the  knot  of  his  brows  and  lifted 
the  letter. 

"  Listen  all !     This  is  from  a  daughter  to  her  father." 

And  he  read,  oddly  accentuatiug  the  first  syllables  of  the 
sentences : — 

"  Dear  Father, 
"My  husband  will  bring  me  to  see  you  when  I  return  to 
dear  England.     I  ought  to  have  concealed  nothing,  I  know. 
Try  to  forgive  me.     I  hope  you  will.     I  shall  always  thiidc 
of  you.     God  bless  you ! 

I  am, 
"Ever  with  respect, 

"Your  dearly  loving  Daughter, 

"  Dadlia.** 


GREAT  NEWS  TEOM  DAHLIA.  53 

"Dahlia  Blant!  "  Said  the  farmer,  turning  his  look  from 
face  to  face. 

A  deep  fire  of  emotion  was  evidently  agitating  him,  for 
the  letter  rustled  in  his  hand,  and  his  voice  was  uneven.  Of 
this,  no  sign  was  given  by  his  inespressH's  features.  The 
round  brown  eyes  and  the  ruddy  varnish  on  his  cheeks  were 
a  mask  upon  grief,  if  not  also  upon  joy. 

"Dahlia — what  ?  What's  her  name?"  he  resumed. 
*'  Here — '  my  husband  will  bring  me  to  see  you ' — who's  her 
husband  ?  Has  he  got  a  name  F  And  a  blank  envelope  to 
her  uncle  here,  who's  kept  her  in  comfort  for  so  long !  And 
this  is  all  she  writes  to  me !  Will  anyone  spell  out  the 
meaning  of  it  ?" 

"  Dahlia  was  in  great  haste,  father,"  said  Rhoda. 

"  Oh,  ay,  you ! — you're  the  one,  I  know,"  returned  the 
farmer.     "  It's  sister  and  sister,  with  you." 

"  But  she  was  very,  very  hurried,  father.  I  have  a  letter 
from  her,  and  I  have  only  '  Dahlia '  written  at  the  end — no 
other  name." 

"  And  you  suspect  no  harm  of  your  sister." 

"  Father,  how  can  I  imagine  any  kind  of  harm  ?" 

"  That  letter,  my  girl,  sticks  to  my  skull  as  though  it 
meant  to  say,  'You've  not  understood  me  yet.'  I've  read  it 
a  matter  of  twenty  times,  and  I'm  no  nearer  to  the  truth  of 
it.  But,  if  she's  lying,  here  in  this  letter,  what's  she  walk- 
ing on  ?  How  long  are  we  to  wait  for  to  hear  ?  I  give  you 
my  word,  Robert,  I'm  feeling  for  you  as  I  am  for  myself. 
Or,  wasn't  it  that  one  ?  Is  it  this  one  F"  He  levelled  his 
finger  at  Rhoda.  "  In  any  case,  Robert,  you'll  feel  for  me 
as  a  father.  I'm  shut  in  a  dark  room  with  the  candle  blowa 
out.  I've  heard  of  a  sort  of  fear  you  have  in  that  dilemmer, 
lest  you  should  lay  your  fingers  on  edges  of  sharp  knives, 
and  if  I  think  a  step — if  I  go  thinking  a  step,  and  feel  my 
way,  I  do  cut  myself,  and  I  bleed,  I  do.  Robert,  just  take 
and  say,  it  wasn't  that  one." 

Such  a  statement  would  carry  with  it  the  confession  that 
it  was  this  one  for  whom  he  cared — this  scornful  one,  this 
jilt,  this  brazen  girl  who  could  make  appointments  with 
gentlemen,  or  suffer  them  to  speak  to  her,  and  subsequently 
look  at  him  with  innocence  and  with  anger. 

*  Believe  me,  Mr.  Fleming,  I  feel  for  you  as  much  as  a 
man  can,"  he  said,  uneasily,  swaying  half  round  as  he  spoke. 


54  EHODA  FLEMING. 

"  Do  yon  snappot  nnythinn;  bad  ?"  The  fnrmor  ropoatod 
the  question,  like  one  wlio  only  wanted  a  eontiniiatiou  of  liis 
own  suspicions  to  see  the  fact  built  up.  "  Robert,  does  this 
look  like  the  letter  of  a  married  woman  ?  Is  it  daui,'hter- 
like — eh,  man?  Help  another:  I  can't  think  for  myself — • 
she  ties  my  hands.     Speak  out." 

Robert  set  his  eyes  on  Rhoda.  He  would  have  given 
much  to  have  been  able  to  utter,  "  I  do."  Her  face  was  like 
an  eager  flower  straining  for  light;  the  very  beauty  of  it 
swelled  his  jealous  passion,  and  he  flattered  himself  with  hia 
incapacity  to  speak  an  aljject  lie  to  propitiate  her. 

"  She  says  she  is  married.  We're  bound  to  accept  what 
she  says." 

That  w^as  his  answer. 

^'' Is  she  married?"  thundered  the  farmer.  "Has  she 
been  and  disgi-aced  her  mother  in  her  grave  ?  What  am  I 
to  think  ?     She's  my  flesh  and  blood.     Is  she " 

"  Oh,  hush,  father!"  Rhoda  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
"  What  doubt  can  there  be  of  Dahlia?  You  have  forgotten 
that  she  is  always  truthful.  Come  away.  It  is  shameful  to 
stand  here  and  listen  to  unmanly  things." 

She  turned  a  face  of  ashes  upon  Robert. 

"  Come  away,  father.  She  is  our  own.  She  is  my  sister. 
A  doubt  of  her  is  an  insult  to  us." 

"  But  Robert  don't  doubt  her — eh  ?"  The  farmer  was 
ali-eady  half  distriicted  from  his  suspicions.  "  Have  you  any 
real  doubt  about  the  girl,  Robert  ?" 

"  I  don't  trust  myself  to  doubt  anybody,"  said  Robert. 

"  You  don't  cast  us  ofl',  my  boy  ?" 

"  I'm  a  labourer  on  the  farm,"  said  Robert,  and  walked 
away. 

"  He's  got  reason  to  feel  this  more'n  the  rest  of  us,  ])oor 
lad  !  It's  a  blow  to  him."  With  which  the  farmer  struck 
his  hand  on  Rhoda's  shoulder.  "  I  wish  he'd  set  his  heart 
on  a  safer  young  woman." 

Rhoda's  shudder  of  revulsion  was  visible  as  she  put  her 
mouth  up  to  kiss  her  father's  cheek. 


INTEODUCES  MES.  LOVELL.  65 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

INTRODUCES  MES.  LOVELL. 

That  is  "Wrexby  Hall,  upon  the  hill  between  Penhurstand 
Wrexby  :  the  white  square  mansion,  with  the  lower  di^awing. 
room  windows  one  full  bow  of  glass  against  the  sunlight, 
and  great  single  trees  spotting  the  distant  green  slopes. 
From  Queen  Anne's  Farm  you  could  read  the  hour  by  the 
stretching  of  their  shadows.  Squire  Blancove,  who  lived 
there,  was  an  irascible,  gouty  man,  out  of  humour  with  his 
time,  and  beginning,  alas  for  him !  to  lose  all  true  faith  ia 
his  Port,  though,  to  do  him  justice,  he  wrestled  hard  with 
this  great  heresy.  His  friends  perceived  the  decay  in  his 
belief  sooner  than  he  did  himself.  He  was  sour  in  the  even- 
ing as  in  the  morning.  There  was  no  chirp  in  him  when  the 
bottle  went  round.  He  had  never  one  hour  of  a  humane 
mood  to  be  reckoned  on  now.  The  day,  indeed,  is  sad  when 
we  see  the  skeleton  of  the  mistress  by  whom  we  suffer,  but 
cannot  abandon  her.  The  squire  drank,  knowing  that  the 
issue  would  be  the  terrific,  curse-begetting  twinge  in  his  foot; 
but,  as  he  said,  he  was  a  man  who  stuck  to  his  habits.  It 
was  over  his  Port  that  he  had  quarrelled  with  his  rector  oa 
the  subject  of  hopeful  Algernon,  and  the  system  he  adopted 
with  that  young  man.  This  incident  has  something  to  do 
with  Rhoda's  story,  for  it  was  the  reason  why  Mrs.  Lovell 
went  to  Wrexby  Church,  the  spirit  of  that  lady  leading  her 
to  follow  her  own  impulses,  which  were  mostly  in  opposition. 
So,  when  perchance  she  visited  the  Hall,  she  chose  not  to 
accompany  the  squire  and  his  subservient  guests  to  Fen- 
hurst,  but  made  a  point  of  going  down  to  the  unoccupied 
Wrexby  pew.  She  was  a  beauty,  and  therefore  powerful ; 
otherwise  her  act  of  nonconformity  would  have  produced  bad 
blood  between  her  and  the  squire. 

It  was  enough  to  have  done  so  in  any  case ;  for  now, 
instead  of  sitting  at  home  comfortably,  and  reading  off  the 
week's  chronicle  of  sport  while  he  nursed  his  leg,  the  unfor- 
tunate gentleman  had  to  be  up  and  away  to  FenhiTrst  every 
Sunday  morning,  or  who  would  have  known  that  the  old 
cause  of  his  general  abstention  from  Sabbath  services  lay  iv 
the  detestable  doctrine  of  Wrexby's  rector  ? 


56  RnODA  FLKMIXG. 

Mrs.  Lovell  was  now  at  the  Hall,  and  it  was  Sunday 
mornintr  aftiT  breakfast.  The  lady  8tot)d  like  a  rival  head 
aiimnLT  the  other  fjuests,  listeniii<if,  gloved  and  bonneted,  to 
the  bells  of  "Wrexby,  West  of  the  hills,  and  of  Fenhurst, 
North-east.  Tlie  squire  came  in  to  them,  proiining  over  his 
boots,  cross  with  his  fragile  wife,  and  in  every  mood  for 
satire,  except  to  receive  it. 

"How  diiricult  it  is  to  be  gouty  and  good!"  murmured 
Mrs.  Lovell  to  the  person  next  her. 

"Well,"  said  the  squire,  singling  out  his  enemy,  "you're 
going  to  that  fellow,  I  suyipose,  as  usual — eh  ?" 

"  Not  '  as  usual,'  "  replied  Mrs.  Lovell,  sweetly  ;  "  I  wish 
it  were!" 

"  Wish  it  were,  do  you  ? — you  find  him  so  entertaining  ? 
Has  he  got  to  talking  of  tlie  lashioiis?" 

"  He  talks  properly  ;  1  dou't  ask  lor  more."  Mrs.  Lovell 
assumed  an  air  of  meekness  under  persecution. 

"  1  thought  you  were  Low  Church." 

"  Lowly  of  tile  C'hnreh,  I  trust  yon  thought."  she  corrected 
hull.  "  But,  for  that  matter,  any  discourse,  plainly  delivered, 
will  suit  me." 

"His  elocution's  perfect,"  said  the  squire  ;  "that  is,  before 
dinner." 

"  I  have  only  to  do  with  him  before  dinner,  you  know." 

"  Well,  I've  OT'dered  a  carriage  out  for  you." 

"  Tliat  is  very  honourable  and  kind." 

"  It  would  be  kinder  if  I  contrived  to  keep  you  away  from 
the  fellow." 

"  Would  it  not  be  kinder  to  yourself,"  ^Irs.  Lovell  swam 
forward  to  him  in  all  tenderness,  taking  his  hands,  and 
fixing  the  swimming  blue  of  her  soft  eyes  upon  him  pathetic- 
ally, "if  you  took  your  paper  and  your  slippers,  and  awaited 
our  return  ?" 

The  squire  felt  the  circulating  smile  about  the  room.  He 
rebuked  the  womsm's  audacity  with  a  frown  ;  " 'Tis  my  duty 
to  set  an  example,"  he  said,  his  gouty  foot  and  irritable 
temper  now  meeting  in  a  common  fire. 

"  Since  you  are  setting  an  example,"  rejoined  the  exquisite 
widow,  "I  have  nothing  moi-e  to  say." 

The  squire  looked  what  he  dared  not  speak.  A  woman 
has  half,  a  beauty  has  all  the  world  with  her  when  she  is 
self-contained,  and  holds  her  place;  and  it  was  evident  that 


INTRODUCES  MRS.  LOVELL.  67 

Mrs.  Lovell  was  Bot  one  to  abandon  lier  advantages.  He 
snapped  round  for  a  victim,  trying  his  wife  first.  Then  his 
eyes  rested  upon  Algernon. 

"Well,  here  we  are;  which  of  us  will  you  take?"  lie 
asked  Mrs.  Lovell  in  blank  irony. 

"  I  have  engaged  my  cavalier,  who  is  waiting,  and  vsdll  be 
as  devout  as  possible."     Mrs.  Lovell  gave  Algc.i-non  a  smile. 

"I  thought  I  hit  upon  the  man,"  growled  the  squire. 
"  You're  going  in  to  Wrexby,  sir !  Oh,  go,  by  all  means, 
and  I  shan't  be  astonished  at  what  comes  of  it.  Like 
teacher,  like  pupil !" 

"  There !"  Mrs.  Lovell  gave  Algernon  another  smile. 
"  Tou  have  to  bear  the  sins  of  your  rector,  as  well  as  your 
own.     Can  you  support  it  ?" 

The  flimsy  fine  dialogue  was  a  little  above  Algernon's 
level  in  the  society  of  ladies  ;  but  he  muttered,  bowing,  that 
he  would  endeavour  to  support  it,  with  Mrs.  Lovell's  help, 
and  this  did  well  enough ;  after  which,  the  slight  strain  on 
the  intellects  of  the  assemblage  relaxed,  and  ordinary  topics 
were  discussed.  The  carriages  came  round  to  the  door ; 
gloves,  parasols,  and  scent -bottles  were  securely  grasped; 
whereupon  the  squire,  standing  bare-headed  on  the  steps, 
insisted  upon  seeing  the  party  of  the  opposition  off  first,  and 
waited  to  hand  Mrs.  Lovell  into'  her  carriage,  an  ironic 
gallantry  accepted  by  the  lady  with  serenity  befitting  the 
sacred  hour. 

''  Ah  !  my  pencil,  to  mark  the  text  for  you,  squire,"  she 
said,  taking  her  seat ;  and  Algernon  turned  back  at  her 
bidding,  to  get  a  pencil ;  and  she,  presenting  a  most  har- 
monious aspect  in  the  lovely  landscape,  reclined  in  the  car- 
riage as  if,  like  the  sweet  summer  air,  she  too  were  quieted 
by  those  holy  bells,  while  the  squire  stood,  fuming,  bare- 
headed, and  with  boiling  blood,  just  within  the  bounds  of 
decorum  on  the  steps.     »She  was  more  than  his  match. 

She  was  more  than  a  match  for  most ;  and  it  was  not  a 
secret.  Algernon  knew  it  as  well  as  Edward,  or  anyone. 
She  was  a  terror  to  the  soul  of  the  youth,  and  an  attraction. 
Her  smile  was  the  richest  flattery  he  could  feel ;  the  richer, 
perhaps,  from  his  feeling  it  to  be  a  thing  impossible  to  fix. 
He  had  heard  tales  of  her  ;  he  remembered  Edward's  warn- 
ing ;  but  he  was  very  humbly  sitting  with  her  now,  and  very 
happy. 


68  KHODA  FLKMraO. 

"  I'm  in  for  it,"  lie  said  to  liis  fair  companion  ;  "  no  cheque 
for  me  next  quarter,  and  no  chance  of  an  increase.  He'll 
tell  me  I've  got  a  salary.  A  salary  !  Good  Lord  !  what  a 
man  comes  to  !  I've  done  for  m\-.self  with  the  s(juire  for  ? 
year." 

"  You  must  think  whether  you  have  compensation,"  said 
the  lady,  and  ho  received  it  in  a  cousinly  s(|uceze  of  his  hand. 

He  was  about  to  raise  the  lank  white  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  Ah  !"  she  said,  "  there  would  be  no  compensation  to  me, 
if  that  were  seen  ;"  and  her  dainty  hand  was  withdrawn. 
"  Now,  tell  me,"  she  changed  her  tone.  "  How  do  the  loves 
prosper  y" 

Algernon  begged  her  not  to  call  them  "  loves."  Sho 
nodded  and  smiled. 

"  Your  artistic  admirations,"  she  observed.  "  I  am  to  see 
her  in  church,  am  I  not  ?  Only,  my  dear  Algy,  don't  go 
too  far.  Rustic  beauties  are  as  dangi'rous  as  Court  Prin- 
cesses.    Where  was  it  3'ou  saw  her  tii-st  ?" 

"  At  the  Bank,"  said  Algernon. 

"  Really  !  at  the  Bank  !  So  your  time  there  is  not  abso- 
lutely wasted.     What  brought  her  to  London,  I  wonder  ?" 

"Well,  she  has  an  old  uncle,  a  queer  old  fellow,  and  he's 
a  sort  of  porter — money  porter — in  the  Bank,  a%vfully  honest, 
or  he  might  half  bi-eak  it  some  fine  day,  if  he  chose  to  cut 
and  run.  She's  got  a  sister,  prettier  than  this  girl,  the 
fellows  say;  I've  never  seen  her.  I  expect  I've  seen  a  por- 
trait of  her,  though." 

"  Ah  !"  Mrs.  Lovell  musically  drew  him  on.  "  Was  she 
dark,  too  ?" 

"  No,  she's  fair.     At  least,  she  is  in  the  portrait," 

"  Brown  hair;  hazel  eyes  r"' 

"  Oh — oh  !     You  guess,  do  you  ?" 

"  I  guess  nothing,  though  it  seems  profitable.  That  Yankee 
betting  man  '  guesses,'  and  what  heaps  of  money  he  makes 
byit!" 

"  I  wish  I  did,"  Algernon  sighed.  "  All  my  guessing  and 
reckoning  goes  wrong.  I'm  safe  for  next  Spring,  that's  one 
comfort.     I  shall  make  twenty  thousand  next  Spring." 

"  On  Tcmplemoi'e  ?" 

"That's  the  horse.  I've  got  a  little  on  Tenpcnny  Nail  as 
■well.  But  I'm  quite  safe  on  Templcmore ;  unless  the  Evil 
Principle  comes  into  the  field." 


INTRODUCES  MRS.  LOVELL.  59 

"  Is  "he  so  sure  to  be  against  you,  if  lie  does  appear  ?' 
Baid  Mrs.  Lovell. 

"  Certain  !"  ejaculated  Algernon,  in  honest  indignation. 

"  Well,  Algy,  I  don't  like  to  have  him  on  my  side.  Per- 
haps  I  will  take  a  share  in  your  luck,  to  make  it — ?  to  make 
it  ?" — She  played  prettily  as  a  misti-ess  teasing  her  lap-dog 
to  jump  for  a  morsel ;  adding :  "  Oh  !  Algy,  you  are  not  a 
Frenchman.  To  make  it  divine,  sir !  you  have  missed  your 
chance." 

"  There's  one  chance  I  shouldn't  like  to  miss,"  said  the 
youth, 

"  Then,  do  not  mention  it,"  she  counselled  him.  "  And, 
seriously,  T  will  take  a  pai-t  of  your  risk.  I  fear  I  am  lucky, 
which  is  ruinous.  We  will  settle  that,  by-and-by.  To  you 
know,  Algy,  the  most  expensive  position  in  the  world  is  a 
widow's." 

"You  needn't  be  one  very  long,"  growled  he. 

"  I'm  so  wretchedly  fastidious,  don't  you  see  ?  And  it's 
best  not  to  sig:h  when  we're  talking  of  business,  if  you'll 
take  me  for  a  guide.  So,  the  old  man  brought  this  pretty 
rustic  Miss  Rhoda  to  the  Bank  ?" 

"  Once,"  said  Algernon.  "  Just  as  he  did  with  her  sister. 
He's  proud  of  his  nieces  ;  shows  them  and  then  hides  them. 
The  fellows  at  the  Bank  never  saw  her  again." 

"  Her  name  is ?" 

"Dahlia." 

"  Ah,  yes  ! — Dahlia.  Extremely  pretty.  There  are  brown 
dahlias — dahlias  of  all  colours.  And  the  portrait  of  this 
fair  creature  hangs  up  in  your  chambers  in  town  ?" 

"  Don't  call  them  my  chambers,"  Algernon  protested. 

"  Your  cousin's,  if  you  like.  Probably  Edward  happened 
to  be  at  the  Bank  when  fair  Dahlia  paid  her  visit.  Once 
seems  to  have  been  enough  for  both  of  you." 

Algernon  was  unread  in  the  hearts  of  women,  and  imagined 
that  Edward's  defection  from  Mrs.  Lovell's  sway  had  deprived 
him  of  the  lady's  sympathy  and  interest  in  his  fortunes. 

"  Poor  old  Ned's  in  some  scrape,  I  think,"  he  said. 

"Where  is  he  ?"  the  lady  asked,  languidly. 

"  Paris." 

"  Paris  ?  How  very  odd !  And  out  of  the  season,  in  this 
hot  weather.  It's  enough  to  lead  me  to  d-ream  that  he  has 
gone  over — one  cannot  realize  why." 


60  EHODA  FLEMING. 

"  Upon  mj  honour !"  Algernon  tliumpcd  on  his  Icnco;  "by 
jinfj^o  !"  he  adopttd  a  less  compromising  interjection  ;  "Ned's 
fool  enoufrh.     Aly  idea  is,  lies  gone  and  got  married." 

^Iis.  Lovell  was  lying  back  with  the  neglectful  grace  of 
incontestable  beauty  ;  not  a  line  to  wrinkle  her  sniootli  soft 
features.  For  one  sharp  instant  her  face  was  all  edged  and 
puckeird,  like  tlie  face  of  a  fair  witch.      She  sat  njjright." 

"^larrieil!  Ihit  how  can  that  be  when  we  none  of  us 
have  heard  a  word  of  it  ?" 

"  I  daresay  you  haven't,"  said  Algernon  ;  "  and  not  likely 
to.  Ned's  the  closest  fellow  of  my  acquaintance.  He  hasn't 
taken  me  into  his  confidence,  you  may  be  sure :  he  knows 
I'm  too  leaky.  There's  no  bore  like  a  secret !  I've  come  to 
my  conclusion  in  this  affair  by  putting  together  a  lot  of  little 
incidents  and  adiling  them  up.  First,  I  believe  he  was  at 
the  Bank  when  that  fair  girl  was  seen  there.  Secondly,  from 
the  description  the  fellows  give  of  her,  I  should  take  hi-r  to 
be  the  original  of  the  portrait.  Next,  I  know  that  Khoda 
has  a  fair  sister  who  has  run  for  it.  And  last,  Rhoda  has 
had  a  letter  from  her  sister,  to  say  she's  away  to  the  Con- 
tinent and  is  married.  Ned's  in  Paris.  Those  are  my  facts, 
and  I  give  you  my  reckoning  of  them." 

Mrs.  Lovell  gazed  at  Algernon  for  one  long  meditative 
moment. 

"  Impossible,"  she  exclaimed.  "Edward  has  more  brains 
than  heart."  And  now  the  lady's  face  was  scarlet.  "  How 
did  this  Rhoda,  witli  her  absui-d  name,  think  of  meeting  you 
to  tell  you  such  stulf  ':*  Indeed,  there's  a  simplicity  in  some 
of  these  young  women ."  She  saidtheremainder  tohcrself . 

"  She's  really  very  innocent  and  good,"  Algernon  defended 
Rhoda.  "  She  is.  There  isn't  a  particle  of  nonsense  in  her. 
I  first  met  her  in  town,  as  I  stated,  at  the  Bank ;  just  on  the 
steps,  and  we  remembered  I  had  called  a  cab  for  her  a  little 
before  ;  and  I  met  her  again  by  <ac;cident  yesterday." 

"  You  are  only  a  boy  in  their  hands,  my  cousin  Algy!" 
said  Mrs.  Lovell. 

Algernon  nodded  with  a  self-defensive  knowingness.  "  I 
fancy  there's  no  doubt  her  sister  has  written  to  her  that 
she's  married.  It's  certain  she  has.  She's  a  blunt  sort  of 
girl  ;  not  one  to  lie,  not  even  for  a  sister  or  a  lover,  unless 
she  had  previously  made  up  her  mind  to  it.  In  that  case, 
she  wouldn't  stick  at  much." 


INTRODUCES  MRS.  LOVELL.  61 

*'  But,  do  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Lovell — "  do  you  know 
that  Edward's  father  would  be  worse  than  yours  over  such 
an  act  of  folly  ?  He  would  call  it  an  offence  against  comnion 
sense,  and  have  no  mercy  for  it.  He  would  be  vindictive  on 
principle.  This  story  of  yours  cannot  be  true.  Xothing 
reconciles  it." 

"  Oh,  Sir  Billy  will  be  rusty;  that  stands  to  reason," 
Algernon  assented.  "  It  mayn't  be  true.  I  hope  it  isa't. 
But  Ned  has  a  madness  for  fair  women.  He'd  do  anything 
on  eai'th  for  them.     He  loses  his  head  entirely." 

"  That  he   may  have  been   imprudent "     Mrs.  Lovell 

thus  blushingly  hiixted  at  the  lesser  sin  of  his  deceiving  and 
ruining  the  girl. 

"  Oh,  it  needn't  be  true,"  said  Algernon  ;  and  with  mean- 
ing, "  Who's  to  blame  if  it  is  ?  " 

Mrs.  Lovell  again  reddened.  She  touched  Algernon's 
fingers. 

"  His  friends  mustn't  forsake  him,  in  any  case." 

"  By  Jove !  you  are  the  right  sort  of  woman,"  cried 
Algernon. 

It  was  beyond  his  faculties  to  divine  that  her  not  for- 
saking of  Edward  might  haply  come  to  mean  something  dis- 
astrous to  him.  The  touch  of  Mrs.  Lovell's  hand  made  him 
forget  Rhoda  in  a  twinkling.  He  detained  it,  audaciously, 
even  until  she  frowned  with  petulance  and  stamped  her  foot. 

There  was  over  her  bosom  a  large  cameo-brooch,  repre- 
senting a  tomb  under  a  palm-tree,  and  the  iigure  of  a  veiled 
woman  with  her  head  bowed  upon  the  tomb.  This  brooch 
was  falling,  when  Algernon  caught  it.  The  pin  tore  his 
finger,  and  in  the  energy  of  pain  he  dashed  the  brooch  to  her 
feet,  with  immediate  outcries  of  violent  disgust  at  himself 
and  exclamations  for  pardon.  He  picked  up  the  brooch.  It 
was  open.  A  strange,  discoloured,  folded  substance  lay  on 
the  floor  of  the  carriage.  Mrs.  Lovell  gazed  down  at  it,  and 
then  at  him,  ghastly  pale.  He  lifted  it  by  one  corner,  and 
the  diminutive  folded  squares  came  out,  revealing  a  strip  of 
red-stained  handkerchief. 

Mrs.  Lovell  gi^asped  it,  and  thrust  it  out  of  sight. 

She  spoke  as  they  approached  the  church-door :  "  Mention 
nothing  of  this  to  a  soul,  or  you  forfeit  my  friendship  for  ever." 

When  they  alighted,  she  was  smiling  in  her  old  affable 
manner. 


62  BHODA  FLEMINQ. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

ROnEBT     INTERVENES. 

Some  cnnsideTation  for  Robert,  after  all,  as  being  the  man 
who  loved  her,  sulllccd  to  ^ave  liim  rank  as  a  more  elevated 
kiml  of  criminal  in  Rhoda's  sight,  and  exquisite  torture  of 
the  hie-hest  form  was  administered  to  him.  Her  faith  in  hor 
sister  was  so  sure  that  she  could  half  pardon  him  for  the 
momentary  harm  he  had  done  to  Dahlia  with  her  father; 
but,  judging  him  by  the  lofty  standard  of  one  who  craved  to 
be  her  husband,  she  could  not  pardon  his  unmanly  hesitation 
and  manner  of  speech.  The  old  and  deep  grievance  in  her 
heart  as  to  what  men  thought  of  women,  and  as  to  the 
harshness  of  men,  was  stiri'od  constantly  by  the  rcTnera- 
brance  of  his  irresolute  looks,  and  his  not  having  dared  to 
speak  nobly  for  Dahlia,  even  though  he  might  have  had  the 
knavery  to  think  evil.  As  the  case  stood,  there  was  still 
mischief  to  counteract.  Her  father  had  willingly  swallowed 
a  drug,  but  his  suspicions  only  slumbered,  and  she  could  not 
instil  her  own  vivid  hopefulness  and  trust  into  him.  Letters 
from  Dahlia  came  regularly.  The  fii-st,  from  Lausanne, 
favoured  Rhoda's  conception  of  her  as  of  a  happy  sjnrit 
resting  at  celestial  stages  of  her  ascent  upward  through 
spheres  of  ecstacy.  Dahlia  could  see  the  snow-mountains  in 
a  Hying  glimpse ;  and  again,  peacefully  seated,  she  could  see 
the  snow-mountains  reflected  in  clear  blue  waters  fi-om  her 
window,  which,  Rhoda  thought,  must  be  like  heaven.  On 
these  inspired  occasions,  Robert  presented  the  form  of  a 
malignant  serpent  in  her  ideas.  Then  Dahlia  made  excur- 
sions upon  glaciers  with  her  beloved,  her  helj)niate,  and  had 
slippings  and  tumbling;^ — little  earthly  casualties  which  gave 
a  charming  sense  of  reality  to  her  otherwise  miraculous 
flight.  The  Alps  were  crossed  :  Italy  w^as  beheld.  A  pro- 
fusion of  "  Oh's !"  descril)ed  Dahlia's  impiessions  of  Italy; 
and  "Oh!  the  heat!"  showed  her  to  be  nioital,  notwith- 
standing the  sublime  exclamations.  Como  received  the 
blissful  couple.     Dahlia  wrote  from  Como: — 

"  Tell  father  that  gentlemen  in  my  Edward's  position 
caunut  always  immediately  proclaim  their  marriage  to  the 


ROBERT  INTERVENES,  63 

world.  There  are  reasons.  I  hope  he  has  been  very  angry 
with  me :  then  it  will  be  soon  over,  and  we  shall  be — but  I 
cannot  look  back.  I  shall  not  look  back  till  we  reach  Venice. 
At  Venice,  I  know  I  shall  see  you  all  as  clear  as  day;  but  I 
cannot  even  remember  the  features  of  my  darling  here." 

Her  Chi'istian  name  was  still  her  only  signature. 

The  thin  blue-and-pink  paper,  and  the  foreign  postmarks 
— testifications  to  Dahlia's  journey  not  being  a  fictitious 
event,  had  a  singular  deliciousness  for  the  solitary  girl  at 
the  Farm.  At  times,  as  she  turned  them  over,  she  was 
startled  by  the  intoxication  of  her  sentiments,  for  the  wild 
thought  would  come,  that  many,  muny  whose  passionate 
hearts  she  could  feel  as  her  own,  were  ready  to  abandon 
principle  and  the  bondage  to  the  hereafter,  for  such  a  long 
delicious  gulp  of  divine  life.  Rhoda  found  herself  more 
than  once  brooding  on  the  possible  case  that  Dahlia  had 
done  this  thing. 

The  fit  of  languor  came  on  her  unawares,  probing  at  her 
weakness,  and  blinding  her  to  the  laws  and  duties  of  earth, 
until  her  conscious  womanhood  checked  it,  and  she  sprang 
from  the  vision  in  a  spasm  of  terror,  not  knowing  how  far 
she  had  fallen. 

After  such  personal  experiences,  she  suffered  great  long- 
ings to  be  with  her  sister,  that  the  touch  of  her  hand,  the 
gaze  of  her  eyes,  the  tone  of  Dahlia's  voice,  might  make  her 
sure  of  her  sister's  safety. 

Rhoda's  devotions  in  church,  were  frequently  distracted  by 
the  occupants  of  the  Blancove  pew.  Mrs.  Lovell  had  the 
habit  of  looking  at  her  with  an  extraordinary  directness,  an 
expressionless  dissecting  scrutiny,  that  was  bewildering  and 
confusing  to  the  country  damsel.  Algernon  likewise  be- 
stowed marked  attention  on  her.  Some  curious  hints  bad 
been  thrown  out  to  her  by  this  young  gentleman  on  the  day 
when  he  ventured  to  speak  to  her  in  the  lane,  which  led  her 
to  fancy  distantly  that  he  had  some  acquaintance  with 
Dahlia's  husband,  or  that  he  had  heard  of  Dahlia. 

It  was  clear  to  Rhoda  that  Algernon  sought  another  inter- 
view. He  appeared  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  farm  on 
Saturdays,  and  on  Sundays  he  was  present  in  the  church, 
sometimes  with  Mrs.  Lovell,  and  sometimes  without  a  com- 
panion. His  appearance  sent  her  quick  wits  travelling 
through  many  scales  of  possible  conduct :  and  th.ey  struck 


64  EnODA  FLEMINO. 

one  ringing  note: — she  thought  that  by  the  aid  of  th's 
gentleman  a  lesson  uiiLrlit  bo  given  to  Kol)eit's  mean  nature. 
It  was  ])ait  iif  liohert  s  piiiiisliment  to  see  that  she  was  not 
unconscious  of  Algernon's  admiration. 

The  tirst  letter  from  Venice  consisted  of  a  series  of  interjec- 
tions in  praise  of  the  poetiy  of  gondolas,  varied  by  allusions 
to  the  sad  smell  of  the  low  tide  water,  and  the  amazing 
quality  of  the  heat;  and  then  Dahlia  wrote  more  com- 
posedly— 

"  Titian  the  painter  lived  here,  and  painted  ladies,  who 
sat  to  him  without  a  bit  of 'garment  on,  and  indeed,  my 
dailing,  I  often  think  it  was  more  comfortable  for  the  modid 
than  for  the  artist.  Even  modesty  seems  too  hot  a  covering 
for  human  creatures  here.  The  sun  strikes  me  down.  lam 
ceasing  to  have  a  complexion.  It  is  pleasant  to  know  that 
my  Edward  is  still  proud  of  me.  He  has  made  acquaintance 
with  some  of  the  officers  here,  and  seems  pleased  at  the  com- 
pliments they  pay  me. 

"  They  have  nice  manners,  and  white  uniforms  that  fit 
them  like  a  kid  glove.  I  am  Edward's  '  resplendent  wife.' 
A  colonel  of  one  of  the  regiments  invited  him  to  dinner 
(speaking  English),  '  with  your  resplendent  Avife.'  Edward 
has  no  mercy  for  errors  of  language,  and  he  would  not  take 
me.  Ah!  who  knows  how  strange  men  are!  Never  think 
of  being  happy  unless  you  can  always  be  blind.  I  see  you. 
all  at  home — Mother  Dumpling  and  all — as  I  thought  I 
should  when  I  was  to  come  to  Venice. 

"  Persuade — do  pei\suade  father  that  everything  will  be 
well.  Some  persons  are  to  be  trusted.  Make  him  feel  it.  T 
know  that  I  am  life  itself  to  Edward.  He  has  lived  as  men 
do,  and  he  can  judge,  and  he  knows  that  there  never  was  a 
wife  who  brought  a  heart  to  her  husband  like  mine  to  him. 
He  wants  to  think,  or  he  wants  to  smoke,  and  he  leaves  me ; 
but,  oh  !  when  he  returas,  he  can  scareidy  believe  that  he 
has  me,  his  joy  is  so  great.  He  looks  like  a  glad  thankful 
child,  and  he  has  the  manliest  of  faces.  It  is  generally 
thoughtful;  you  might  think  it  hard,  at  first  sight. 

"  But  you  must  be  beautiful  to  please  some  men.  You 
will  laugh — I  have  really  got  the  habit  of  talking  to  my  face 
and  all  myself  in  the  glass.  Rhoda  would  think  me  cracked. 
And  it  is  really  true  that  I  was  never  so  liurable  about  ray 
good  looks.     You  used  to  spoil  mo  at  home — you  and  that 


EGBERT  INTERVENES.  65 

■wicked  old  Mother  Dumpling',  and  our  own  dear  mother, 
Rhoda — oh  !  mother,  mother  !  I  wish  I  had  always  thou^-ht 
of  you  looking  down  on  me  !  You  made  me  so  vain — much 
more  vain  than  I  let  you  see  I  was.  There  were  times  when 
it  is  quite  true  I  thoug'ht  myself  a  pz-incess.  I  am  not 
worse-looking  now,  but  I  suppose  I  desire  to  be  so  beautiful 
that  nothing  satisfies  me. 

"  A  spot  on  my  neck  gives  me  a  dreadful  fright.  If  my 
hair  comes  out  much  when  I  comb  it,  it  sets  my  heart  beat- 
ing ;  and  it  is  a  daily  misery  to  me  that  my  hands  are  larger 
than  they  should  be,  belonging  to  Edward's  '  resplendent 
wife.'  I  thank  heaven  that  you  and  I  always  saw  the  neces- 
sity of  being  careful  of  our  finger-nails.  My  feet  are  of 
moderate  size,  though  they  are  not  French  feet,  as  Edward 
says.  1^0  :  I  shall  never  dance.  He  sent  me  to  the  dancing- 
master  in  London,  but  it  was  too  late.  But  I  have  been 
complimented  on  my  walking,  and  that  seems  to  please 
Edward.  He  does  not  dance  (or  mind  dancing)  himself, 
only  he  does  not  like  me  to  miss  one  perfection.  It  is  his 
love.  Oh  !  if  I  have  seemed  to  let  you  suppose  he  does  not 
love  me  as  ever,  do  not  think  it.  He  is  most  tender  and 
true  to  me.     Addio  !     I  am  signora,  you  are  signorina. 

"  They  have  such  pretty  manners  to  us  over  here.  Edward 
says  Chey  think  less  of  women :  I  say  they  think  more.  But 
I  feel  he  must  be  right.  Oh,  my  dear,  cold,  loving,  innocent 
sister  !  put  out  your  arms  ;  I  shall  feel  them  round  me,  and 
kiss  you,  kiss  you  for  ever  !" 

Onward  from  city  to  city,  like  a  radiation  of  light  from 
the  old  farm-house,  where  so  little  of  it  was,  Dahlia  con- 
tinued her  journey  ;  and  then,  Avithout  a  warning,  with  only 
a  word  to  say  that  she  neared  Rome,  the  letters  ceased.  A 
chord  snapped  in  Rhoda's  bosom.  While  she  was  hearing 
from  her  sister  almost  weekly,  her  confidence  was  buoyed  on 
a  srummer  sea.  In  the  silence  it  fell  upon  a  dread.  She 
had  no  answer  in  her  mind  for  her  father's  unspoken  dis- 
satisfaction, and  she  had  to  conceal  her  cruel  anxiety. 
There  was  an  interval  of  two  months  :  a  blank  full  charged 
with  apprehension  that  was  like  the  humming  of  a  toneless 
wind  before  storm ;  worse  than  the  storm,  for  any  human 
thing  to  bear. 

Rhoda  was  unaware  that  Robert,  who  rarely  looked  at 
Her,  and  never  sought  to  speak  a  word  to  her  when  by  chance 

F 


66  EnODA  FLEMING. 

they  met  and  ■were  alone,  stndied  each  chancre  in  her  face, 
and  read  its  signs,  lie  was  left  to  his  own  iiitorpirliil  ion  of 
tlu'in,  but  the  signs  he  knew  accui-ately.  He  knew  that  lior 
]iii(le  had  sunk,  and  that  her  heart  was  desolate.  lie 
laelieved  that  she  had  discovered  her  sister's  misery. 

One  day  a  letter  arrived  that  gave  her  no  joyful  colouring, 
tliougli  it  sent  colour  to  her  cheeks.  She  opened  it,  evi- 
dently not  knowing  the  handwriting;  her  eyes  ran  down 
the  lines  hui-ricdly.  After  a  time  she  went  upstairs  for  her 
bonnet. 

At  the  stile  leading  into  that  lane  where  Robert  had 
previously  seen  her,  she  was  stopped  by  him. 

"  No  farther,"  was  all  that  he  said,  and  he  was  one  who 
could  have  interdicted  men  from  advancing. 

"  Why  may  I  not  go  by  you  ?"  said  Rhoda,  with  a  woman's 
affected  hundjleness 

Robert  joined  his  hands.  "  You  go  no  farther,  Mi&a 
Rhoda,  unless  you  take  me  with  you." 

"  I  shall  not  do  that,  jNIr.  Robert." 

"  Then  you  had  better  return  home." 

"  Will  you  let  me  know  what  reasons  you  have  for 
behaving  in  this  manner  to  me  ?" 

"I'll  let  you  know  by-and-by,"  said  Robert.  "At  prc- 
Bent,  you'll  let  the  stronger  of  the  two  have  his  way." 

He  had  always  been  so  meek  and  gentle  and  inoffensive, 
that  her  contemjit  had  enjoyed  f  i-ee  play,  and  had  never  risen 
to  anger;  but  violent  anger  now  surged  against  him,  and 
she  cried,  "  Do  you  dare  to  touch  me  ?"  trying  to  force  her 
passage  by. 

Robert  "caught  her  softly  by  the  wrist.  There  stood  at  the 
same  time  a  full-staturcd  strength  of  will  in  his  eyes,  under 
which  her  own  fainted. 

"Go  back!"  he  said;  and  she  turned  that  he  might  not 
see  her  tears  of  irritation  and  shame.  He  was  treating  her 
as  a  child  ;  but  it  was  to  hei-self  alone  that  she  could  defend 
herself.  She  marvelled  that  when  she  thought  of  an  out- 
sjioken  complaint  against  him,  her  conscience  gave  hei-  no 
support. 

"  Is  there  no  freedom  for  a  woman  at  all  in  this  world  ?" 
Rhoda  framed  the  bitter  question. 

Rboila  went  back  as   she  had  come.     Algernon  Blancove 


DAHLIA  IS  NOT  7ISIBLB.  67 

did  the  same.  Between  them  stood  Robert,  thinkiTig,  "  Now 
I  have  made  that  cjirl  hate  me  for  life." 

It  -was  in  November  that  a  letter,  dated  from  London, 
reached  the  farm,  quickening  Rhoda's  blood  an^w  "  I  am 
alive,"  said  Dahlia;  and  she  said  little  more,  except  tl  at  she 
was  waiting  to  see  her  sister,  and  bade  her  urgently  so  travel 
np  alone.  Her  father  consented  to  her  doing  so.  After  a 
consultation  with  Robert,  however,  he  determined  to  accom- 
pany her. 

"  She  can't  object  to  see  me  too,"  said  the  farmer ;  and 
Rhoda  answered  "  No."  But  her  face  was  bronze  to  Robei't 
when  they  took  their  departure. 


CHAPTER  X. 

DAHLIA   IS   NOT   VISIBLE. 


Old  Anthony  was  expecting  them  in  London.  It  was  now 
Winter,  and  the  season  for  theatres  ;  so,  to  show  his  brother- 
in-law  the  fun  of  a  theatre  was  one  part  of  his  projected 
hospitality,  if  Mr.  Fleming  should  haply  take  the  hint  that 
he  must  pay  for  himself. 

Anthony  had  laid  out  money  to  welcome  the  farmer,  and 
was  shy  and  fidgetty  as  a  girl  who  anticipates  the  visit  of  a 
promising  youth,  over  his  fat  goose  for  next  day's  dinner, 
and  his  shrimps  for  this  day's  tea,  and  his  red  slice  of  strong 
cheese,  called  of  Cheshire  by  the  reckless  butterman,  for 
supper. 

He  knew  that  both  Dahlia  and  Rhoda  must  have  told  the 
farmer  that  he  was  not  high  up  in  Boyne's  Bank,  and  it 
fretted  him  to  think  that  the  mysterious  respect  entertained 
for  his  wealth  by  the  farmer,  which  delighted  him  with  a 
novel  emotion,  might  be  dashed  by  what  the  farmer  would 
behold. 

During  his  last  visit  to  the  farm,  Anthony  had  talked  of 
the  Funds  more  suggestively  than  usual.  He  Lad  alluded  to 
his  own  dealings  in  them,  and  to  what  he  would  do  and  would 
not  do  under  certain  contingencies  ;  thus  shadowing  out, 
dimly  luminous  and  immense,  what  he  could  do,  if  his 
sagacity  prompted  the  adventure.     The  farmer  had  listened 

F  2 


08  RnOT>A  FLEMING. 

through  tho  buzzing  of  liis  uncertain  grief,  only  sighing  for 
jinswt'r.  "  It"  ever  you  come  up  to  Loiuhm,  brother' Williiun 
John,"  said  Anthony,  "  you  mind  you  go  about  arm-iu-urm 
with  me,  or  you'll  be  judging  by  appearances,  and  says  you, 
'Lor',  Avhat  a  thousander  fellow  tiiis  is  !'  and  '  What  a  niil- 
lioncr  fellow  that  is  !'  You'll  be  giving  your  millions  and 
your  thousands  to  the  wrong  people,  when  they  haven't  got 
a  penny.  All  London  '11  be  topsy-turvy  to  you,  unless  you've 
got  a  guide,  and  he'll  show  you  a  shabby-coated,  head-in-the 
gutter  old  man  '11  buy  up  the  lot.  Kverj'body  that  doesn't 
know  him  says — look  at  him!  but  they  that  knows  him — 
hats  oir,  I  can  tell  you.  And  talk  about  lords  !  We  don't 
mind  their  coming-  into  the  city,  but  they  know  the  scent  of 
cash.  I've  had  a  lord  take  oii"  his  hat  to  me.  It's  a  fact, 
I  have." 

In  spite  of  the  extreme  caution  Anthony  had  impressed 
upon  his  country  relative  that  he  should  not  judge  by 
appeaiunces,  he  was  nevertheless  under  an  apprehension  that 
the  farmer's  opinion  of  him,  and  the  luxurious,  almost 
voluj)tnoiis,  enjoyment  he  had  of  it,  were  in  peril.  When  he 
had  purchased  the  well-probed  fat  goose,  the  shrimps,  and 
the  cheese,  ho  was  only  half-satistied.  His  ideas  shot  boldly 
at  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  he  employed  a  summer-lighted  even- 
ing in  going  a  round  of  wine-merchants'  placards,  and  look- 
ing out  for  the  cheapest  bottle  he  could  buy.  And  he  would 
have  bought  one — he  had  sealing-wax  of  his  own  and  could 
have  stamped  it  with  the  olliee-stamp  of  IJovne's  Bank  tor  that 
matter,  to  make  it  as  dignified  and  costly  as  the  vaunted 
red  seals  and  green  seals  of  the  placards — he  would  have 
bought  one,  had  he  not,  by  one  of  his  lucky  mental  illumi- 
nations, recollected  that  it  was  within  his  power  to  procure 
an  order  to  taste  wiTie  at  the  Docks,  where  you  may  get  as 
much  wine  as  j'ou  like  out  of  big  sixpenny  glasses,  and  try 
cask  after  cask,  walking  down  gas-lit  paths  between  the 
huge  bellies  of  wine  which  groan  to  be  tapped  and  ti-ied, 
that  men  may  know  them.  The  idea  of  paying  two  sliillings 
and  sixpf  nee  for  one  miserable  bottle  vanished  at  the  richly- 
coloured  ])rospect.  "  That'll  show  him  something  of  what 
London  is,"  thought  Anthony;  and  a  companion  thought 
told  him  in  addition  that  the  farmer,  with  a  skinful  of  wine, 
would  emerge  into  the  open-air  innigining  no  small  things 
of  tho  man  who  could  gain  admittance  into  those  marvellous 


DAHLIA  IS  NOT  VISIBLE.  69 

caverns  "By  George!  it's  like  a  boy's  story-'boolv,"  cried 
Anthony,  in  liis  soul,  and  he  chuckled  over  the  vision  of  the 
farmer's  amazement — acted  it  with  his  arms  extended,  and 
his  hat  unseated,  and  plunged  into  whfeezy  tits  of  laughter. 

He  met  his  guests  at  the  station.  Mr.  f^leming  was 
soberly  attired  in  what,  to  Anthony's  London  eye,  was  a 
curiosity  costume ;  but  the  broad  brim  of  the  hat,  the  square 
,  cut  of  the  brown  coat,  and  the  leggings,  struck  him  as  being 
very  respectable,  and  worthy  of  a  presentation  at  any  Bank 
in  London. 

"  You  stick  to  a  leather  purse,  brother  William   John  ?  " 
he  inquired,  with  an  artistic  sentiment  for  things  in  keeping. 
"  I  do,"  said  the  farmer,  feeling  seriously  at   the  button 
over  it. 

"  All  right ;   I  shan't   ask  ye  to   show  it  in  the   street," 
Anthony  rejoined,  and  smote  Rhoda's  hand  as  it  hung : 
"  Glad  to  see  your  old  uncle — are  ye  ?  " 
Rhoda  repliecl  quietly  that  she  was,  but  had  come  with 
the  principal  object  of  seeing  her  sister. 

"There!"  cried  Anthony,  "you  never  get  a  compliment 
out  of  this  gal.  She  gives  ye  the  nut,  and  you're  to  crack  it, 
and  thei-e  may  be,  or  there  mayn't  be,  a  kernel  inside — she 
don't  care." 

"  But  there  ain't  much  in  it ! "  the  farmer  ejaculated, 
withdrawing  his  fingers  from  the  button  they  had  been  teas- 
ing for  security  since  Anthony's  question  about  the  purse. 

"Not  much — eh!  brother  William  John?"  Anthony 
threw  up  a  puzzled  look.  "  Not  much  baggage — I  see  that!" 
he  exchximed ;  "  and,  Lord  be  thanked  !  no  trunks.  Aha, 
my  dear" — he  turned  to  Rhoda— "you  remember  your 
lesson,  do  ye  ?  Now,  mark  me — I'll  remember  you  for  it. 
Do  you  know,  my  dear,"  he  said  to  Rhoda  confidentially, 
"that  sixpenn'orth  of  chaiS  which  I  made  the  cabman  pay 
for — there  was  the  cream  of  it ! — that  was  better  than 
Peruvian  bark  to  my  constitution.  It  was  as  good  to  me  as 
a  sniff  of  sea-breeze  and  no  excursion  expenses.  I'd  like 
another,  just  to  feel  young  again,  when  I'd  have  backed 
myself  to  beat — cabmen  ?  Ah  !  I've  stood  up,  when  I  was  a 
young  'un,  and  shut  up  a  Cheap  Jack  at  a  fair.  Circulation's 
the  soul  o'  chaff.  That's  why  I  don't  mind  tackling  cabmen 
— they  sit  all  day,  and  all  they've  got  to  say  is  '  rat-tat,' 
and  they've  done.     But  I  let  the  boys  roar.     I  know  what  I 


70  iniODA  FLKMINO. 

was  whon  a  boy  myself.  I've  got  devil  in  mc — never  you 
fear — but's  it  all  on  the  side  of  the  law.  Now,  let's  olT,  for 
the  gentlemen  are  stai-in'  at  you,  which  "won't  hurt  ye,  ye 
know,  but  makes  me  jealous." 

Uefoi-e  the  party  moved  away  from  tlie  platform,  a  shai-p 
tussle  took  jtlaee  between  Anthony  and  the  faiiiier  as  tu  the 
porterage  of  the  bulky  bag;  but  it  being  only  half-earnest, 
the  farmer  did  not  put  out  his  strength,  and  Anthony  had 
his  way. 

"I  rather  astonished  you,  brother  William  John,"  he  said, 
when  thev  were  in  the  street. 

The  farmer  admitted  that  he  was  stronger  than  he  looked. 

"  Don't  you  judge  by  appearance.s,  that's  all,"  Anthony 
remarked,  setting  down  the  bag  to  lay  his  tinger  on  one  side 
of  his  nose  for  iinpi-essiveness. 

"  Now,  there  we  leave  London  Bridge  to  the  right,  and  we 
slioulder  away  to  the  left,  and  quiet  parts."  He  seized  the 
bag  anew.  "  Just  listen.  That's  the  roaring  of  cataracts  of 
gold  you  hear,  brother  William  John.  It's  a  good  notion, 
ain't  it  ?  Hark  !  -  I  got  that  notion  from  one  of  your  penny 
papers.  You  can  buy  anj  amount  for  a  penny,  now-a-days 
— poetry  up  in  a  corner,  stories,  tales  o'  tem]itation — one 
fellow  cut  his  lucky  with  his  master's  cash,  dashed  away  to 
Australia,  made  millions,  fit  to  be  a  lord,  and  there  he  was  ! 
liable  to  the  law  !  and  everybody  bowing  their  hats  and  their 
heads  oH"  to  him,  and  his  knees  knocking  at  the  sight  of  a 
policeman — a  man  of  a  red  complexion,  full  habit  of  body, 
enjoyed  his  dinner  and  his  wine,  and  on  account  of  his  turn- 
ing white  so  often,  tluy  called  him — '  Sealing-wax  and  Parch- 
ment' was  one  name;  'Carrots  and  tuinips' was  another; 
'  Bliimnnge  and  something,'  and  ."io  on.  Fancy  his  having  to 
pa}'  hilf  his  income  in  pensions  to  chaps  who  could  have  had 
him  out  of  his  town  or  country  mansion  and  ])0])ped  into 
gaol  in  a  jiffy.  And  found  out  at  last  1  Them  tales  set  you 
thinking.  Once  I  was  an  idle  voting  scaramouch.  But  you 
can  buy  every  idea  that's  useful  to  you  for  a  ])enny.  I  tried 
the  halfpenny  journals.  Cheapness  ain't  always  profitable. 
The  moral  is,  Make  your  money,  and  you  may  buy  all  the 
rest." 

Discoursing  thus  by  the  way,  and  resisting  the  farmer's 
occasional  efforts  to  relieve  him  of  the  bag,  with  the  obser- 
vation that  aijpearances  weredeceiviiig,  and  that  he  intended, 


DAHLIA  IS  NOT  VISIBLE.  71 

please  tis  Malcer,  to  live  and  turn  over  a  little  more  interest 
vet,  Anthony  brouo-ht  them  to  Mrs.  Wicklow's  house.  Mrs. 
Wicklow  pi'omised  to  put  them  into  the  track  of  the  omni- 
buses runnino-  toward  Dahlia's  abode  in  the  South-west,  and 
Mary  Ann  Wicklow,  who  had  a  burning  desire  in  her  bosom 
to  behold  even  the  outside  shell  of  her  friend's  new  grandeur, 
undertook  very  disinterestedly  to  accompany  them.  An- 
thony's strict  injunction  held  them  due  at  a  lamp-post  out- 
side Boyne's  Bank,  at  half -past  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

"  My  love  to  Dahly,"  he  said.  "  She  was  always  a  head 
and  shoulders  over  my  size.  Tell  her,  when  she  rolls  by  in 
her  cai^riage,  not  to  mind  me.  I  got  my  own  notions  of  value. 
And  if  that  Mr.  Ayrton  of  hers  '11  bank  at  Boyne's,  I'll 
behave  to  him  like  a  customer.  This  here's  the  girl  for  my 
money."     He  touched  Rhoda's  arm,  and  so  disappeared. 

The  farmer  chidded  her  for  her  cold  manner  to  her  uncle, 
murmuring  aside  to  her  :  "  You  heard  what  he  said."  Rhoda 
was  frozen  with  her  heart's  expectation,  and  insensible  to 
hints  or  repi'oof.  The  people  who  entered  the  omnibus 
seemed  to  her  stale  phantoms  bearing  a  likeness  to  every  one 
she  had  known,  save  to  her  beloved  whom  she  was  about  to 
meet,  after  long  separation. 

She  marvelled  pityingly  at  the  sort  of  madness  which  kept 
the  streets  so  lively  for  no  reasonable  purpose.  When  she 
Avas  on  her  feet  again,  she  felt  for  the  first  time,  that  she  was 
nearing  the  sister  for  whom  she  hungered,  and  the  sensation 
beset  her  that  she  had  landed  in  a  foreign  country.  Mary 
Ann  Wicklow  chattered  all  the  while  to  the  general  ear.  It 
was  her  pride  to  be  the  discoverer  of  Dahlia's  terrace. 

"J^ot  for  worlds  would  she  enter  the  house,"  she  said,  in 
a  general  tone ;  she  knowing  better  than  to  present  herself 
where  downright  entreaty  did  not  invite  her. 

Rhoda  left  her  to  count  the  numbers  along  the  terrace- 
walk,  and  stood  out  in  the  road  that  her  heart  might  select 
Dahlia's  habitation  from  the  other  hueless  residences.  She 
fixed  upon  one,  but  she  was  wrong,  and  her  heart  sank.  The 
fair  Mary  Ann  fought  her  and  beat  her  by  means  of  a  care- 
ful reckoning,  as  she  remarked  : — 

"  I  keep  my  eyes  open ;  ISTumber  15,  is  the  corner  house, 
the  bow- window,  to  a  certainty." 

Gardens  were  in  front  of  the  houses ;  or,  to  speak  more 
correctly,  strips  of  garden- walks.     A  cab  was  drawn  up  close 


72  EHODA  FLEMING. 


by  tho  shrnh-covcrcd  iron  gate  leading  np  to  Ifo.  15.  Mary 
Ann  luuTiod  tliem  on,  dcclai-ing  tliat  they  might  be  too  late 
even  now  at  a  couple  of  dozen  paces  distant,  seeing  that 
London  cabs,  crawlers  as  they  usually  -were,  could^  when 
reciuircd,  and  paid  for  it,  do  their  business  like  lightning. 
Her  observation  was  illustrated  the  nionicnt  al'toi-  they  had 
left  her  in  the  rear;  for  a  gentleman  suddenly  s])rang  across 
the  pavement,  jumped  into  a  cab,  and  was  whirled  away, 
with  as  mucli  apparent  magic  to  provincial  eyes,  as  if  a 
pantomimic  trick  had  been  performed.  llhoda  pressed 
forward  a  step  in  advance  of  her  father. 

"  It  may  have  been  her  husband,"  she  thought,  and 
trembled.  The  curtains  up  in  the  drawing-room  were  moved 
as  by  a  hand;  but  whei-e  was  Dahlia's  face?  Dahlia  knew 
that  they  were  coming,  and  she  was  not  on  the  look-out  for 
them  ! — a  strange  conflict  of  facts,  over  which  Rhoda  knitted 
her  black  brows,  so  that  she  looked  menacing  to  the  maid 
opening  the  door,  whose  "  Oh,  if  you  please,  Miss,"  came  in 

contact  with   "My  sister — ^Irs.  ,  she    expects   me.      I 

mean,  Mrs. "  but  no  other  name  than  "Dahlia"  would 

fit  itself  to  Rhoda's  mouth. 

"  Ayrton,"  said  the  maid,  and  recommenced,  "  Oh,  if  you 
please,  Miss,  and  you  are  the  young  lady,  Mrs.  Ayrton  is 
very  sorry,  and  have  left  word,  would  you  call  again  to- 
morrow, as  she  have  made  a  pressing  appointment,  and  was 
sure  you  would  excuse  her,  but  her  husband  was  very  anxious 
for  her  to  go,  and  could  not  put  it  off,  and  was  very  sorry, 
but  would  you  call  again  to-moiTow  at  twelve  o'clock  ?  and 
punctually  she  woultl  be  here." 

The  maid  smiled  as  one  who  had  fairly  accomplished  the 
recital  of  her  lesson.     Rhoda  was  stunned. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Ayrton  at  home  ? — Not  at  home  ?"  she  said. 

"  No  :  don't  ye  hear  ?"  quoth  the  farmer,  sternly. 

"  She  had  my  letter — do  you  know  ?"  Rhoda  appealed  to 
the  maid. 

"  Oh,  yes,  ]\Iiss.     A  letter  from  the  country." 

"This  morning?" 

"Yes,  Miss;  this  morning." 

"And  she  has  gone  out?  What  time  did  she  go  out? 
When  will  she  be  in  ?" 

Her  father  plucked  at  her  dress.  "  Best  not  go  making 
the  young   woman    repeat   herself.     She   says,  nobody's  at 


DAHLIA  IS  NOT  VISIBLE.  73 

home  to  ask  us  in.     There's  no  more,  then,  to  trouLle  her 
for." 

"  At  twelve  o'clock  to-morrow  ?"  Rhoda  faltered. 

"  \Yould  you,  if  you  please,  call  again  at  twelve  o'clock 
to-morrow,  and  punctually  she  would  be  here,"  said  the 
maid. 

The  farmer  hung  his  head  and  turned.  Rhoda  followed 
him  from  the  garden.  She  was  immediately  plied  with 
queries  and  interjections  of  wonderment  by  Miss  Wicklow, 
ajid  it  was  not  until  she  said :  "  You  saw  him  go  out,  didn't 
you  ? — into  the  cab  ?"  that  Rhoda  awakened  to  a  meaning 
in  her  gabble. 

Was  it  Dahlia's  husband  whom  they  had  seen  ?  And  if 
so,  why  was  Dahlia  away  from  her  husband  ?  She  questioned 
in  her  heart,  but  not  for  an  answer,  for  she  allowed  no  sus- 
picions to  live.  The  farmer  led  on  with  his  plodding  country 
step,  burdened  shoulders,  and  ruddy-jowled,  serious  face,  not 
speaking  to  Rhoda,  wlio  had  no  desire  to  hear  a  word  from 
him,  and  let  him  be.  jNlary  Ann  steered  him  and  called  from 
behind  the  turnings  he  was  to  take,  while  she  speculated 
aloud  to  Rhoda  upon  the  nature  of  the  business  that  had 
torn  Dahlia  from  the  house  so  inopportunely.  At  last  she 
announced  that  she  knew  what  it  was,  but  Rhoda  failed  to 
express  curiosity.  IMary  Ann  was  driven  to  whisper  some- 
thing about  strange  things  in  the  way  of  purchases.  At 
that  moment  the  farmer  threw  up  his  umbrella,  shouting  for 
a  cab,  and  Rhoda  ran  up  to  him : 

"  Oh,  father,  why  do  we  want  to  ride?" 

"Yes,  I  tell  ye!"  said  the  farmer,  chafing  against  his 
coat-collar. 

"  It  is  an  expense,  when  we  can  walk,  father." 

"  What  do  I  care  for  th'  expense  ?  I  shall  ride."  He 
roared  again  for  a  cab,  and  one  came  that  took  theija  in ; 
after  which,  the  farmer,  not  being  spoken  to,  became  gravely 
placid  as  before.  They  were  put  down  at  Boyne's  Bank. 
Anthony  was  on  the  look-out,  and  signalled  them  to  stand 
away  some  paces  fi^om  the  door.  They  were  kept  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  waiting  between  two  tides  of  wayfarers, 
which  hustled  them  one  way  and  another,  when  out,  at  last, 
came  the  old,  broad,  bent  figui^e,  with  little  finicking  steps, 
and  hurried  past  them  head  foremost,  his  arms  narrowed 
■cross  a  bulgy  breast.     He  stopped  to  make  sure  that  they 


74  RnODA  FLEMING. 

■were  followinp^,  beckoned  with  liis  chin,  and  procccfled  at  a 
mighty  rate.  Marvellous  was  his  rounding  of  corners,  his 
threading  of  obstructions,  his  skilful  diplomacy  with  pas- 
sengers.  Presently  they  lost  sight  of  him,  and  stood  lieu  il- 
dered;  but  while  they  were  deliberating  they  heard  his 
voice.  He  was  above  them,  having  issued  from  two  swing- 
ing brio^ht  doors;  and  he  laughed  and  nodded,  as  he  ran 
down  the  steps,  and  made  signs,  by  Avhich  they  Avere  to 
understand  that  he  was  relieved  of  a  weight. 

"  I've  done  that  twenty  year  of  my  lil'e,  brother  William 
John,"  he  said.  "  Eh  ?  Perhaps  you  didn't  guess  I  w  us 
worth  some  thousands  when  I  got  away  from  you  just  now  ? 
Let  any  chap  try  to  stop  me  !  They  may  just  as  well  try  to 
stop  a  railway  train.     iSteam's  up,  and  I'm  oif." 

He  laughed  and  wiped  bis  forehead.  Slightly  vexed  at 
the  small  amount  of  discoverable  astonishment  on  the 
fai-mer's  face,  he  continued  : 

"  You  don't  thiidv  much  of  it.  TVhy,  there  ain't  another 
man  but  myself  Boyne's  Bank  would  trust.  They've  trusted 
me  thirty  year: — why  shouldn't  they  go  on  trust iiiLf  me 
another  thirty  year?  A  good  character,  brother  William 
John,  goes  on  compound-interesting,  just  like  good  coin. 
Didn't  you  feel  a  sort  of  heat  as  I  brushed  by  you — eh  ? 
That  was  a  matter  of  one — two — three — four  ;"  Anthony 
watched  the  farmer  as  his  voice  swelled  up  on  the  heighten- 
ing numbers  :  "  five — six — six  thousand  pounds,  brother 
"William  John.  People  must  think  something  of  a  man  to 
trust  him  with  that  sum  pretty  near  every  day  of  their 
lives,  Sundays  excepted — eh  ?  don't  you  think  so  r'" 

He  dwelt  upon  the  immense  ccmfidence  reposed  in  him, 
and  the  terrible  temptation  it  Avould  be  to  some  men,  and 
how  they  ought  to  thank  their  stars  that  they  were  never 
thrown  in  the  way  of  such  a  temptation,  of  which  he  I'eally 
thought  nothing  at  all — nothing  !  until  the  farmer's  coun- 
tenance was  lightened  of  its  air  of  oppression,  for  a  puzzle 
was  dissolved  in  his  brain.  It  was  now  manifest  to  him 
that  Anthony  Avas  trusted  in  this  extraordinary  manner 
because  the  heads  and  managers  of  Boyne's  Bank  knew  the 
old  man  to  be  possessed  of  a  certain  very  respectable  sum : 
in  all  probability  they  held  it  in  their  coffers  for  safety  and 
credited  him  Avith  the  amount.  Nay,  more;  it  was  fair  to 
imagine  that  the  guileless  old  fellow,  Avho  conceived  himself 


DAHLIA  IS  NOT  VISIBLE.  75 

to  be  SO  deep,  had  let  tliem  get  it  all  into  their  hands  Tvith- 
out  any  suspicion  of  their  prominent  object  in  doing  so. 

Mr.  Fleming  said,  "Ah,  yes,  surely." 

He  almost  looked  shrewd  as  he  smiled  over  Anthony's 
hat.  The  healthy  exercise  of  his  wits  relieved  his  appre- 
hensive paternal  heart ;  and  when  he  mentioned  that  Dahlia 
had  not  been  at  home  when  he  called,  he  at  the  same  time 
sounded  his  hearer  for  excuses  to  be  raised  on  her  behalf, 
himself  clumsily  suggesting  one  or  two,  as  to  show  that  he 
was  willing  to  swallow  a  very  little  for  comfort. 

"  Oh,  of  coui^se  !"  said  Anthony,  jeeriugly.  "  Out  ?  If 
you  catch  her  in,  these  next  three  or  four  days,  you'll  be 
lucky.     Ah,  bi-other  William  John  '" 

The  farmer,  half  frightened  by  Anthony's  dolorous  shake 
of  his  head,  exclaimed  :  "  What's  the  matter,  man  ?" 

"  How  proud  I  should  be  if  only  you  was  in  a  way  to  bank 
at  Boyne's  !" 

"  Ah !"  went  the  farmer  in  his  turn,  and  he  plunged  his 
chin  deep  in  his  neckerchief. 

"  Perhaps  some  of  your  family  will,  some  day,  brother 
William  John." 

"  Happen,  some  of  my  family  do,  brother  Anthony!" 

"  Will  is  what  I  said,  brother  William  John ;  if  good  gals, 
and  civil,  and  marry  decently — eh  ?"  and  he  faced  about  to 
Rhoda  who  was  walking  with  Miss  Wicklow.  "  What  does 
she  look  so  down  about,  my  dear  ?  iN'ever  be  down.  I  don't 
mind  you  telling  your  young  man,  whoever  he  is  ;  and  I'd  like 
him  to  be  a  strapping  young  six-footer  I've  got  in  my  eye, 
who  faims.  What  does  he  farm  with  to  make  farming 
answer  now-a-days  P  Why,  he  farms  with  bi-ains.  You'll 
find  that  in  my  last  week's  Joiu-nal,  brother  William  John, 
and  thinks  I,  as  I  conned  it — the  farmer  ought  to  read  that ! 
You  may  tell  any  young  man  you  like,  my  dear,  that  your 
old  uncle's  fond  of  ye." 

On  their  ari-ival  home,  Mrs.  Wicklow  met  them  with  a 
letter  in  her  hand.  It  was  for  Rhoda  from  Dahlia,  saying 
that  Dahlia  was  grieved  to  the  heart  to  have  missed  her  dear 
father  and  her  darling  sister.  But  her  husband  had  insisted 
upon  her  going  out  to  make  particular  purchases,  and  do  a 
dozen  things ;  and  he  was  extremely  sorry  to  have  been 
obliged  to  take  her  away,  but  she  hoped  to  see  her  dear 
sister  and  her  father  very,  very  soon.     She  wished  she  were 


76  EHODA  FT.EMIXO. 

her  o^wTi  mistress  that  she  inii^ht  i-un  to  thom,  but  men  when 
thej  are  husbaiuls  recjuire  so  much  waiting  on  that  she  coukl 
never  call  live  minutes  her  own.  She  would  entreat  them  to 
call  to-mori-ONV,  only  she  would  then  be  moving  to  her  new 
lodgings.  "  Ihit,  oh  !  my  dear,  my  blessed  Hhoda  !"  the  letter 
concluded,  "  do  keep  fast  in  your  heart  that  1  do  love  you  .so, 
and  ])ray  that  we  may  meet  soon,  as  I  ]>ray  it  every  night 
and  all  day  long.  i>i'g  father  to  stop  till  we  meet.  Things 
will  soon  be  arranged.  They  must.  Oh!  oh,  my  Khuda, 
love!  how  handsome  you  have  grown.  It  is  very  well  to  be 
fair  for  a  time,  but  the  brunettes  have  the  hajtpiest  lot. 
They  last,  and  when  we  blonde  ones  cry  or  grow  thin,  oh! 
what  objects  we  become  !" 

There  were  some  final  affectionate  words,  but  no  further 
explanations. 

The  wrinkles  again  settled  on  the  farmer's  mild,  uncom- 
plaining forehead. 

Khoda  said  :  "  Let  us  wait,  father." 

When  alone,  she  locked  the  letter  against  her  heart,  as  to 
suck  the  secret  meaning  out  of  it.  Thinking  over  it  was 
useless ;  except  for  this  one  thought :  how  did  her  sister 
know  she  had  grown  very  handsome  ?  Perhaps  the  house- 
maid had  prattled. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AN  INDICATIVE  DUET  IN  A  MINOR  KEY. 

DAnr.TA,  the  perplexity  to  her  sister's  heart,  lay  RtretcTied 
at  full  length  upon  the  sofa  of  a  pleasantly  furnished  London 
drawing-room,  sobbing  to  herself,  with  her  handkerchief 
across  her  eyes.  She  had  cried  passion  out,  and  sobbed  now 
for  comfort. 

She  lay  in  her  rich  silken  dress  like  the  wreck  of  a  joyful 
creature,  while  the  large  red  Winter  sun  rounded  to  evening, 
and  threw  deep-coloured  beams  against  the  wall  above  her 
head.  They  touched  the  nut-brown  hair  to  vivid  thi-eads  of 
fire:  but  she  lay  faceless.  Utter  languor  and  the  dread  of 
looking  at  her  «^'elids  in  the  glass  kept  her  prostrate. 


AN  INDICATIVE  DUET.  77 

So,  fhe  darkness  closed  her  about;  the  sickly  gas-lamps  of 
the  street  showing  her  as  a  shrouded  body. 

A  girl  came  in  to  spread  the  cloth  for  dinner,  and  went 
through  her  duties  with  the  stolidity  of  the  London  lodgine- 
house  maidservant,  poking  a  clogged  fire  to  perdition,  and 
repressing  a  songful  spirit. 

Dahlia  knew  well  what  was  being  done ;  she  would  have 
eriven  much  to  have  saved  her  nostrils  from  the  smell  of 
dinner ;  it  was  a  great  immediate  evil  to  her  sickened  senses ; 
but  she  had  no  energy  to  call  out,  nor  will  of  any  kind.  The 
odours  floated  to  her,  and  passively  she  combatted  them. 

At  first  she  was  nearly  vanquished ;  the  meat  smelt  so 
acrid,  the  potatoes  so  sour ;  each  afflicting  vegetable  asserted 
itself  peculiai'ly ;  and  the  bread,  the  salt  even,  on  the  wings 
of  her  morbid  fancy,  came  steaming  about  her,  subtle,  pene- 
trating, thick,  and  hateful,  like  the  pressure  of  a  cloud  out 
of  which  disease  is  shot. 

Such  it  seemed  to  her,  till  she  could  have  shrieked ;  but 
only  a  few  fresh  tears  started  down  her  cheeks,  and  she  lay 
enduring  it. 

Dead  silence  and  stillness  hung  over  the  dinner-service, 
when  the  outer  door  below  was  opened,  and  a  light  foot 
sprang  up  the  stairs. 

There  entered  a  young  gentleman  in  evening  dress,  with  a 
loose  black  wrapper  drooping  from  his  shoulders.  He  looked 
on  the  table,  and  then  glancing  at  the  sofa,  said  : 

"  Oh,  there  she  is !"  and  went  to  the  window  and 
whistled. 

After  a  minute  of  great  patience,  he  turned  his  face  back 
to  the  room  again,  and  commenced  tapping  his  foot  on  the 
carpet. 

"  Well  ?"  he  said,  finding  these  indications  of  exemplary 
self-command  unheeded.  His  voice  was  equally  powerless 
to  provoke  a  sign  of  animation.  He  now  displaced  his  hat, 
and  said,  "  Dahlia  !" 

She  did  not  move. 

"  I  am  here  to  very  little  purpose,  then,"  he  remarked. 

A  fluttering  fall  of  her  bosom  was  perceptible. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  take  away  that  handkerchief,  my 
good  child  !  Why  have  you  let  your  dinner  get  cold  ? 
Here,"  he  lifted  a  cover ;  "  here's  roast-beef.  Tou  like  it — - 
why  don't  you  eat  it  ?      That's  only  a  small  piece  of  the 


78  EnODA  FLEMING. 

general  inconsistency,  I  know.  And  why  haven't  they  pnt 
champagne  on  tlie  table  for  yon  ?  You  lose  your  spirits 
without  it.  If  you  took  it  Avhen  those  moody  iits  came  on — 
but  tliere's  no  advising  a  Avomaii  to  do  anything  foi-  her  own 
good.  Dalilia,  wi  '  you  do  mc  the  favour  to  speak  two  or 
tliree  words  with  me  before  I  go  ?  I  would  have  dim>d  here, 
but  I  have  a  man  to  meet  me  at  the  Club.  Of  what  mortal 
service  is  it  shamming  the  insensible  ?  You've  produced 
the  re(|uired  effect,  I  am  as  uncomfortable  as  I  need  be. 
Absolutely  ! 

"  Well,"  seeing  that  words  were  of  no  avail,  he  summed 
■up  expostulation  and  reproach  in  this  sigh  of  resigned  jthilo- 
BO])hy  :  "  I  am  going.  Let  me  see — I  have  my  Temple  keys? 
— ves  !  I  am  afraid  that  even  when  vou  are  inclineil  to  be 
gi-acious  and  look  at  me,  I  shall  not  be  visible  to  you  for 
some  days.  I  start  for  Lord  Lliing's  to-mori-ow  morning  at 
five.  I  meet  my  father  there  by  appointment.  I'm  afraid 
we  shall  have  to  stay  over  Chi'istraas.  Good-bye."  He 
pau-ed.     "  Good-bye,  my  dear." 

Two  or  three  steps  nearer  the  door,  he  said,  "  By  the  way, 
do  you  want  anything  ?  Money  r* — do  you  happen  to  want 
any  money  ?  I  will  send  a  blank  cheque  to-morrow.  I  have 
suilicient  ..ir  both  of  us.  I  shall  tell  the  landlady  to  order 
your  Christmas  dinner.  How  about  wine  ?  There  is  cham- 
pagne, I  know,  and  bottled  ale.  Sherry  ?  I'll  drop  a  letter 
to  my  wine-merchant ;  I  think  the  sherry's  running  dry." 

Her  sense  of  hearing  was  now  alHicted  in  as  gross  a  manner 
as  had  been  her  sense  of  smell.  She  could  not  have  spoken, 
though  her  vitality  had  pressed  for  S])eeeh.  It  would  have 
astonished  him  to  hear  that  his  solicitude  concerning  pro- 
vender for  her  during  liis  absence  was  not  esteemed  a  kind- 
ness ;  for  surely  it  is  a  kindly  thing  to  think  of  it ;  and  for 
•whom  but  for  one  for  whom  he  cared  would  he  be  counting 
the  bottles  to  be  left  at  her  disposal,  insomuch  that  the 
paucity  of  the  bottles  of  sherry  in  the  establishment  dis- 
tressed his  mental  faculties  ? 

"  Well,  good-bye,"  he  said,  finally.     The  door  closed. 

Had  Dahlia's  misery  been  in  any  degree  simulated,  her 
eyes  now,  as  well  as  her  ears,  would  have  taken  positive 
assurance  of  his  departure.  But  with  the  removal  of  her 
handkerchief,  the  loathsome  sight  of  the  dinner-table  would 
have  saluted   her,  and  it  had  already  caused   her  suifering 


AN  INDICATIVE  DUET.  79 

enough.  She  chose  to  remain  as  she  was,  saying  to  herself, 
"  I  am  dead  ;"  and  softly  revelling  in  that  corpse-like  senti- 
ment.    She  scarcely  knew  that  the  door  had  opened  again. 

"  Dahlia  !" 

She  heard  her  name  pronounced,  and  more  entreatingly, 
and  closer  to  her. 

"  Dahlia,  my  poor  girl !"  Her  hand  was  pressed.  It  gave 
her  no  shudders. 

"  I  am  dead,"  she  mentally  repeated,  for  the  touch  did  not 
run  up  to  her  heart  and  stir  it. 

"  Dahlia,  do  be  reasonable  !  I  can't  leave  you  like  this. 
We  shall  be  separated  for  some  time.  And  what  a  miser- 
able fire  you've  got  here !  You  have  agreed  with  me  that 
we  are  acting  for  the  best.  It's  very  hard  on  me  !  I  try 
what  I  can  to  make  you  comf — happy ;  and  really,  to  see 
you  leaving  your  dinner  to  get  cold !  Your  hands  are  like 
ice.  The  meat  won't  be  eatable.  You  know  I'm  not  my 
own  master.     Come,  Dahly,  my  darling  !" 

He  gently  put  his  hand  to  her  chin,  and  then  drew  away 
the  handkerchief. 

Dahlia  moaned  at  the  exposure  of  her  tear-stained  face 
she  turned  it  languidly  to  the  wall. 

"  Are  you  ill,  my  dear  ?"  he  asked. 

Men  are  so  considerately  practical !  He  begged  urgently 
to  be  allowed  to  send  for  a  doctor. 

But  women,  when  they  choose  to  be  unhappy,  will  not 
accept  of  practical  consolations  !  She  moaned  a  refusal  to 
see  the  doctor. 

Then  what  can  I  do  for  her  F  he  naturally  thought,  and  he 
naturally  uttered  it. 

"  Say  good-bye  to  me,"  he  whispered.  "  And  my  pretty 
one  will  write  to  me.  I  shall  reply  so  punctually  !  I  don't 
like  to  leave  her  at  Christmas;  and  she  will  give  me  a  line 
of  Italian,  and  a  little  French — mind  her  accents,  though  ! — 
and  she  needn't  attempt  any  of  the  nasty  German — kshrra- 
houzzra-hratz  ! — which  her  pretty  lips  can't  do,  and  won't  do; 
but  only  French  and  Italian.  Why,  she  learnt  to  sjicak 
Italian  !  '  La  dolcezza  ancor  deniro  me  suona.'  Don't  you 
remember,  and  made  such  fun  of  it  at  first  ?  '  Amo  zoo  ;' 
*  110  amo  me .'"  my  sweet  !" 

This  was  a  specimen  of  the  baby-lover  talk,  which  is 
charming  in  its  season,  and  may  be  pleasantly  cajoling  to  a 


80  RnODA  FLEMINa. 

loving  woman  at  .all  times,  save  when  she  is  in  Dahlia's  con- 
dition. It  will  sei-ve  even  then,  or  she  will  pass  it  forrrivinq-ly, 
as  not  the  food  she  for  a  moment  i-ei|uire.s;  but  it  must  be 
pni-ely  simple  in  its  utterance,  otherwise  she  detects  the  poor 
chiciineiy,  an<l  resents  the  meanness  of  it.  Slio  resents  it 
with  unutterable  sickness  of  soul,  for  it  is  the  languiifje  of 
what  were  to  her  the  holiest  hours  of  her  existence,  wliich  is 
thus  hypocritically  used  to  blind  and  rock  her  in  a  cradle  of 
deception.  If  corrupt,  she  may  be  brought  to  answer  to  it 
all  the  same,  and  she  will  do  her  part  of  the  play,  and  babble 
words,  and  fret  and  pout  deliciously ;  and  the  old  days  will 
seem  to  be  revived,  when  both  know  they  aj-e  dead;  and  she 
will  thereby  gain  any  advantage  she  is  seeking. 

But  Dahlia's  son-ow  was  deep  :  her  heart  was  sound.  She 
did  not  even  perceive  the  opportunity  ofFei-ed  to  her  for  a 
wily  performance.  She  felt  the  hollo -vness  of  his  speech, 
and  no  more ;  and  she  said,  "  Good-bye,  Edward." 

He  had  been  on  one  knee.  Spriniring  cheerfully  to  his 
feet,  "  Good-bye,  darling,"  he  said.  "  But  I  must  see  hor  sit 
to  table  first.  Such  a  wretched  dinner  for  her !"  and  he 
mumbled,  "By  Jove,  I  suppose  I  shan't  get  any  at  all  my- 
self !"  His  watch  confirmed  it  to  him  tliat  any  dinner  which 
had  been  provided  for  him  at  the  Club  would'be  spoilt. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  said  aloud,  and  examined  the  roast  beef 
ruefully,  tliinking  that,  doubtless,  it  being  more  than  an 
hour  behind  the  appointed  dinner-time  at  the  Club,  his  guest 
must  now  be  gone. 

For  a  minute  or  so  he  gazed  at  the  mournful  spectacle. 
The  potatoes  looked  as  if  they  had  committed  suicide  in  their 
own  steam.  There  were  mashed  turnijis,  with  a  glazed  sur- 
face, like  the  bright  bottom  of  a  tin  pan.  One  block  of  bread 
was  by  the  lonely  plate.  Neither  hot  nor  cold,  the  whole 
aspect  of  the  dinner-table  resisted  and  repelled  the  gaze,  and 
made  no  y^retensions  to  allure  it. 

The  thought  of  partaking  of  this  repast  endowed  him  ^vith 
a  critical  appreciation  of  its  character,  and  a  gush  of  chai-i- 
table  emotion  for  the  poor  girl  who  had  such  miserable  dishes 
awaiting  her,  arrested  the  philosophic  reproof  which  he  could 
have  administered  to  one  that  knew  so  little  how  a  dinner  of 
any  sort  should  be  ti  eat?d.  He  strode  to  the  windows,  pulled 
down  the  blind  he  had  previously  raised,  rang  the  boll,  and 
Baid  : 


AN  INDICATIVE  DUET.  81 

"Dahlia,  there — I'm  going  to  dine  with  jou,  my  love.  I've 
rang  the  bell  for  more  candles.  The  room  shivers.  That 
girl  will  see  you,  if  you  don't  take  care.  Where  is  the  key 
of  the  cupboard  ?  TVe  must  have  some  wine  out.  The  cham- 
pagne, at  all  events,  won't  be  flat." 

He  commenced  humming  the  song  of  complacent  resigna- 
tion. Dahlia  was  still  inanimate,  but  as  the  door  was  about 
to  open,  she  rose  quickly  and  sat  in  a  tremble  on  the  sofa, 
concealing  her  face. 

An  order  was  given  for  additional  candles,  coals,  and 
■wood.  When  the  maid  had  disappeax-ed.  Dahlia  got  on  her 
feet,  and  steadied  herself  by  the  wall,  tottering  away  to  her 
chamber. 

"Ah,  poor  thing!"  ejaculated  the  young  man,  not  without 
an  idea  that  the  demonstration  was  unnecessary.  For  what 
is  decidedly  disagreeable  is,  in  a  young  man's  calculation 
concerning  women,  not  necessary  at  all — quite  the  reverse. 
Are  not  women  the  flowers  which  decorate  sublunary  life  ? 
It  is  really  irritating  to  discover  them  to  be  pieces  of  ma- 
chinery that,  for  want  of  proper  oiling,  creak,  stick,  threaten 
convulsions,  and  are  tragic  and  stir  us  the  wi'ong  way. 
However,  champagne  does  them  good  :  an  admirable  wine — 
a  sure  specific  for  the  sex  ! 

He  searched  around  for  the  keys  to  get  at  a  bottle  and 
uncork  it  forthwith.  The  keys  were  on  the  mantelpiece :  a 
bad  comment  on  Dahlia's  housekeeping  qualities ;  but  in  the 
hurry  of  action  let  it  pass.  He  welcomed  the  candles  gladly, 
and  soon  had  all  the  cupboards  in  the  room  royally  open. 

Bustle  is  instinctively  adopted  by  the  human  race  as  the 
substitute  of  comfort.  He  called  for  more  lights,  more  plates, 
more  knives  and  forks.  He  sent  for  ice :  the  maid  observed 
that  it  was  not  to  be  had  save  at  a  distant  street :  "  Jump 
into  a  cab — champagne's  nothing  without  ice,  even  in  Winter," 
he  said,  and  rang  for  her  as  she  was  leaving  the  house,  to 
name  a  famous  fishmonger  who  was  sure  to  supply  the  ice. 

The  establishment  soon  understood  that  Mr.  Ayrton  in- 
tended dining  within  those  walls.  Fresh  potatoes  were  put 
on  to  boil.  The  landlady  came  up  herself  to  arouse  the  fire. 
The  maid  was  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ho  veering  between 
the  order  to  get  ice  and  the  execution  of  immediate  com- 
mands. One  was  that  she  should  take  a  glass  of  champagne 
to  Mrs.  Ayrton  in  her  room.     He  drank  off  one  himself. 

a 


82  RHODA  PLEMINQ. 

Mrs.  Ayrton's  glass  being  brought  back  untouched,  ho  drank 
that  oil'  likewise,  and  as  he  became  more  exhilarated,  was 
more  considerate  for  her,  to  such  a  degree  that,  when  she 
appeared  he  seized  her  hands  and  only  jestingly  scolded  her 
for  her  contempt  of  sound  medicine,  declaring,  in  spite  of 
her  protestations,  that  she  was  looking  lovely,  and  so  they 
sat  down  to  their  dinner,  she  with  an  anguislied  glance  at 
the  looking-glass  as  she  sank  in  her  chair. 

"It's  not  bad,  after  all,"  said  he,  drenching  his  tasteless 
moutliful  of  half-cold  meat  with  champagne.  "  The  truth 
is,  that  Clubs  spoil  us.  This  is  Spartan  fare.  Come,  drink 
with  me,  my  dearest.     One  sip." 

She  was  coaxed  by  degrees  to  empty  a  glass.  She  had  a 
gentle  heart,  and  could  not  hold  out  long  against  a  visible 
lively  kindliness.  It  pleased  him  that  she  should  bow  to 
him  over  fresh  bubbles  ;  and  they  went  formally  through 
the  ceremony,  and  she  smiled.  He  joked  and  laughed  and 
talked,  and  she  eyed  him  a  faint  sweetness.  He  perceived 
now  that  she  required  nothing  moie  than  the  restoration  of 
her  personal  pride,  and  setting  bright  eyes  on  her,  hazarded 
a  bold  compliment. 

Dahlia  drooped  like  a  yacht  with  idle  sails  struck  by  a 
sudden  blast,  that  dips  them  in  the  salt ;  but  she  raised  her 
face  with  the  full  bloom  of  a  blush  :  and  all  was  plain  sailing 
afterward. 

"  Has  my  darling  seen  her  sister  ?"  he  asked  softly. 

Dahlia  answered  :  "No,"  in  the  same  tone. 

Both  looked  away. 

"  She  won't  leave  town  -without  seeing  you  ?" 

"  I  hope — I  don't  know.  She — she  has  called  at  our  last 
lodgings  twice." 

"Alone?" 

"  Yes  ;   I  think  .so." 

Dahlia  kept  her  head  down,  replying;  and  his  observation 
of  hei-  wavered  uneasily. 

"  Whv  not  wa-ite  to  her,  then  ?" 

"  She\vill  bring  father." 

The  sob  thickened  in  her  throat;  but,  alas  for  him  who 
had  at  first,  while  she  was  on  the  sofa,  affected  to  try  all 
measures  to  revive  her,  that  I  must  declare  him  to  know  well 
how  certain  was  his  mastery  over  her,  when  his  manner  was 
thoroughly  kind.  He  had  not  much  fear  of  her  relapsing  at 
lu'eseiil. 


AN  INDICATIVE  DUET.  83 

**  You  can't  see  your  father  ?" 

*'Is"o." 

"  But,  do.     It's  best." 

*'  I  can't." 

«'  Why  not  ?" 

*'  Not "   she  hesitated,  and  clasped  her  hands  in  her 

lap. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  know,"  said  he ;  "  but  still !  You  could 
surely  see  him.  You  rouse  suspicions  that  need  not  exist. 
Try  another  glass,  my  dear." 

"No  more." 

"Well;  as  I  was  saying,  you  force  him  to  think — and  there 
is  no  necessity  for  it.  He  may  be  as  hard  on  this  point  as  you 
say ;  bat  now  and  then  a  little  innocent  deception  may  be 
practised.  We  only  require  to  gain  time.  You  place  me  in  a 
very  hard  position.  I  have  a  father  too.  He  has  his  own  idea 
of  things.  He's  a  proud  man,  as  I've  told  you;  tremendously 
ambitious,  and  he  wants  to  push  me,  not  only  at  the  bar, 
but  in  the  money  market  matrimonial.  All  these  notions  I 
have  to  contend  against.  Things  can't  be  done  at  once.  If 
I  give  him  a  shock — well,  we'll  drop  any  consideration  of  the 
consequences.  Write  to  your  sister  to  tell  her  to  bring  your 
father.  If  they  make  particular  inquiries — very  unlikely 
I  think — but,  if  they  do,  put  them  at  their  ease." 

She  sighed. 

"  Why  was  my  poor  darling  so  upset,  when  I  came  in  ?" 
said  he. 

There  was  a  difficulty  in  her  speaking.  He  waited  with 
much  patient  twiddling  of  bread  crumbs ;  and  at  last  she 
said: 

"  My  sister  called  twice  at  my — our  old  lodgings.  The 
eeconcl  time,  she  burst  into  tears.     The  girl  told  me  so." 

"  But  women  cry  so  often,  and  for  almost  anything. 
Dahlia." 

"  Rhoda  cries  vrith  her  hands  closed  hard,  and  her  eyelids 
too." 

"  Well,  that  may  be  her  way." 

"  I  have  only  seen  her  cry  once,  and  that  was  when  mother 
was  d^ing,  and  asked  her  to  fetch  a  rose  from  the  garden. 
I  met  her  on  the  stairs.  She  was  like  wood.  She  hates 
crying.     She  loves  me  so." 

The  svmpathetic  tears  rolled  down  Dahlia's  cheeks. 

g2 


64  RHODA  FLEMING. 

"  So,  jou  quite  refuse  to  see  your  father  ?"  he  asTcod. 

"Not  yet!" 

"  Not  yet,"  he  repeated. 

At  tlie  touch  of  scorn  in  his  voice,  she  exclaimed : 

"  Oh,  Edward  !  not  yet,  I  cainiot.  I  know  I  am  Tveak. 
I  can't  meet   him  now.     If  my  Ulioda  liad  come  alone,  as  I 

hoped !  but  he  is  with  her.     Don't  blame  me,  Edward. 

I  can't  explain.  I  only  know  that  I  really  have  not  the 
power  to  see  him." 

p]dward  nodded.  "  The  sentiment  some  women  put  into 
thinfifs  is  inexplicable,"  he  said.  "  Your  sister  and  father 
■will  retui-n  home.  They  will  have  formed  their  ideas.  You 
know  how  unjust  they  will  be.  Since,  however,  the  taste  is 
for  being  a  victim — eh  ?" 

London  lodging-house  rooms  in  Winter  when  the  blinds 
are  down,  and  a  cheerless  fire  is  in  the  grate,  or  when  blinds 
are  up  and  street-lamps  salute  the  inhabitants  with  uncordial 
rays,  are  not  entertaining  places  of  residence  for  restless 
spirits.  Edward  paced  about  the  room.  He  lit  a  cigar  and 
puffed  at  it  fretfully. 

"  Will  you  come  and  try  one  of  the  theatres  for  an  hour  ?" 
he  asked. 

She  rose  submissively,  afraid  to  say  that  she  thought  she 
should  look  ill  in  the  staring  lights;  but  he,  with  great 
quickness  of  j)erce])tion,  rendered  her  task  easier  by  naming 
the  dress  she  was  to  wear,  the  jewels,  and  the  colour  of  the 
opera  cloak.  Thus  prompted,  Dahlia  went  to  her  chamber, 
and  passively  attired  heiself,  thankful  to  have  been  spared 
the  pathetic  troubles  of  a  selection  of  garments  from  her 
wardrobe;  when  she  came  forth,  Edward  thought  her  mar- 
vellously beautiful. 

Pity  that  she  had  no  strength  of  chai-acter  whatever,  nor 
any  pointed  liveliness  of  mind  to  match  and  wrestle  with 
his  own,  and  cheer  the  domestic  hearth !  But  she  was 
certainly  beautiful.  Edward  kissed  her  hand  in  commenda- 
tion. Though  it  was  practically  annoying  that  she  should 
be  sad,  the  hue  and  spirit  of  sadness  came  home  to  her 
aspect.  Sorrow  visited  her  tenderly  falling  eyelids  like  a 
Bister, 


AT  THE  THEATRE.  85 

CHAPTER  XIL 

AT      THE      THEATRE. 

Edward's  engagement  at  his  Club  had  been  with  his 
nnfortunate  cousin  Algernon ;  who  not  only  wanted  a  dinner 
but  "  five  pounds  or  so  "  (the  hazy  margin  which  may  extend 
inimitably,  or  miserably  contract,  at  the  lender's  pleasure, 
and  the  necessity  for  which  shows  the  borrower  to  be  danc- 
ing on  Fortune's  tight-rope  above  the  old  abyss), 

"  Over  claret,"  was  to  have  been  the  time  for  the  asking; 
and  Algernon  waited  dinnerless  until  the  healthy-going 
minutes  distended  and  swelled  monstrous  and  horrible  as 
viper-bitten  bodies,  and  the  venerable  Signior,  Time,  became 
of  unhealthy  hue.  For  this  was  the  first  dinner  which, 
during  the  whole  coui'se  of  the  young  man's  career,  had  ever 
been  failing  to  him  !  Reflect  upon  the  mournful  gap  !  He 
could  scarcely  believe  in  his  ill-luck.  He  suggested  it  to 
himself  with  an  inane  grin,  as  one  of  the  far-away  freaks 
of  circumstances  that  had  struck  him — and  was  it  not 
comical  ? 

He  waited  from  the  hour  of  six  till  the  hour  of  seven. 
He  compared  clocks  in  the  hall  and  the  room.  He  changed 
the  posture  of  his  legs  fifty  times.  For  a  while  he  wrestled 
right  gallantly  with  the  apparent  menace  of  the  Fates  that 
he  was  to  get  no  dinner  at  all  that  day  ;  it  seemed  incredibly 
derisive,  for,  as  I  must  repeat,  it  had  never  happened  to  him 
by  any  accident  before.  "  You  are  born — you  dine."  Such 
appeared  to  him  to  be  the  positive  regulation  of  affairs,  and 
a  most  proper  one  : — of  the  matters  of  course  following  the 
birth  of  a  young  being. 

By  what  frightful  mischance,  then,  does  he  miss  his 
dinner  ?  By  placing  the  smallest  confidence  in  the  gentle- 
m.anly  feeling  of  another  man  !  Algernon  deduced  this  reply 
accui'ately  from  his  own  experience,  and  whether  it  can 
be  said  by  other  '  undined  '  mortals,  does  not  matter  in  the 
least.  Perhaps,  when  keenly  looked  to,  it  will.  But,  we 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  constitutionally  luckless  :  the 
calamitous  history  of  a  simple  empty  stomach  is  enough. 
Here  the  tragedy  is  palpable.     Indeed,  too  sadly  so,  and  I 


86  RnODA  FLK5I1N0. 

dare  apply  "htit  a  flash  of  the  microscope  to  the  rnnfini:^ 
dilemmas  of  this  animalcule.  Five  and  twenty  minutes  had 
sicrnalk'd  their  departure  from  the  hour  of  seven,  Avlu-n 
Aii^vi-Tjon  pronounced  his  final  verdict  upon  Edward's  con- 
duct by  leaving  the  Club.  He  returned  to  it  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  later,  and  lingered  on  in  despei-ate  mood  till  eight. 

lie  had  neither  watch  in  his  pocket,  nor  ring  on  his 
finger,  nor  disposable  stud  in  his  shirt.  The  sum  of  twenty- 
one  pence  Avas  in  his  possession,  and,  I  ask  you,  as  he  asked 
hiniK<;lf,  how  is  a  gentleman  to  dine  upon  that  ?  He  lauglied 
at  the  notion.  The  irony  of  Providence  sent  him  by  a  cook's 
shop,  where  the  mingled  steam  of  meats  and  puddings 
rushed  out  upon  the  wayf.-irer  like  ambushed  bandits,  and 
seized  him  and  dragged  him  in,  or  sent  him  qualmish  and 
humbled  on  his  w^y. 

Two  little  boys  had  flattened  their  noses  to  the  whiteness 
of  winkles  against  the  jealously  misty  windows.  Algernon 
knew  himself  to  be  accounted  a  generous  fellow,  and  remem- 
bering his  reputation,  he,  as  to  hint  at  what  Fortune  might 
do  in  his  case,  tossed  some  coppers  to  the  urchins,  who 
ducked  to  the  pavement  and  slid  before  the  counter,  in  a 
flash,  with  never  a  "  thank  ye,"  oi  the  thought  of  it. 

Algernon  was  incapable  of  appreciating  this  childish  faith 
in  the  beneficence  of  the  unseen  Powers  who  feed  us,  which, 
I  must  say  for  him,  he  had  shared  in  a  very  similar  manner 
only  two  hours  ago.  He  laughed  scornfully:  "The  little 
beggars  !"  considering  in  his  soul  that  of  such  is  humanity 
composed :  as  many  a  dinnerless  man  had  said  before,  and 
Avill  again,  to  point  the  speech  of  fools.  He  continued 
strolling  on,  comparing  the  cramped  misty  London  aspect  of 
things  Avith  his  visionaiy  free  dream  of  the  glorious  ])rairies, 
where  his  other  life  was:  the  forests,  the  mountains,  the 
endless  expanses  ;  the  horses,  the  flocks,  the  slipshod  ease  of 
language  and  attire;  and  the  grog-shops.  Aha!  There 
could  be  no  mistake  about  him  as  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar 
out  there  !  Nor  Avould  Nature  shut  up  her  pocket  and 
demand  innumerable  things  of  him,  as  civilization  did.  This 
he  thought  in  the  vengefulness  of  his  outraged  mind. 

Not  only  had  Algernon  never  failed  to  iline  every  day  of 
his  life  :  he  had  no  recollection  of  having  ever  dined  without 
drinking  wine.  His  conception  did  not  ombi-ace  the  idea  of 
a  dinner  lacking  wine.     Possibly  he  had  some  embodied  un-  » 


AT  THE  THEATRE.  87 

deri?f;aTidmof  ttat  -vrine  did  not  fall  to  the  lot  of  every  fellow 
upon  earth  :  he  had  heard  of  gullets  unrefreshed  even  by 
beer :  but  at  any  rate  he  himself  was  accustomed  to  better 
things,  and  he  did  not  choose  to  excavate  facts  from  the 
mass  of  his  knowledge  in  order  to  reconcile  himself  to  the 
miserable  chop  he  saw  for  his  dinner  in  the  distance — a  spot 
of  meat  in  the  arctic  circle  of  a  plate,  not  shone  upon  by  any 
rosy-warming  sun  of  a  decanter  ! 

But  metaphorical  language,  though  nothing  other  will 
convey  the  extremity  of  his  misery,  or  the  form  of  his 
thoughts,  must  be  put  aside. 

"  Egad,  and  every  friend  I  have  is  out  of  town !"  he 
exclaimed,  quite  willing  to  think  it  part  of  the  plot. 

He  stuck  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  felt  vagabond-like 
and  reckless.  The  streets  were  revelling  in  their  winter 
muck.  The  carriages  rolling  by  insulted  him  with  their 
display  of  wealth. 

He  had  democratic  sentiments  regarding  them.  0,  for  a 
horse  upon  the  boundless  plains  !  he  sighed  to  his  heart. 
He  remembered  bitterly  how  he  had  that  day  ridden  his 
stool  at  the  bank,  dreaming  of  his  wilds,  where  bailiff  never 
ran,  nor  dujis  obscured  the  firmament. 

And  then  there  were  theatres  here — huge  extravagant 
places !  Algernon  went  over  to  an  entrance  of  one,  to  amuse 
his  mind,  cynically  criticizing  the  bill.  A  play  was  going 
forward  Avithin,  that  enjoyed  great  popular  esteem:  "The 
Holly  Bei'i'ics."  Seeing  that  the  pit  was  crammed,  Algernon 
made  application  to  learn  the  state  of  the  boxes,  but  hearing 
that  one  box  was  empty,  he  lost  his  intex^est  in  the  perform- 
ance. 

As  he  was  strolling  forth,  his  attention  was  taken  by  a 
noise  at  the  pit-doors,  which  swung  open,  and  out  tumbled  a 
tonu'h  little  old  man  with  a  younger  one  grasping  his  coat- 
coUai',  who  proclaimed  that  he  would  sicken  him  of  pushing 
past  liim  at  the  end  of  eveiy  act. 

"  You're  precious  fond  of  plays,"  sneered  the  junior. 

"  I'm  fond  of  everything  I  pay  for,  young  fellow,"  replied 
the  shaken,  senior ;  "  and  that's  a  bit  of  enjoyment  you've 
got  to  learn — ain't  it  ?" 

"  Well,  don't  you  knock  by  me  again,  that's  all,"  cried  tho 
choleric  youth. 


88  KnODA  FLEMING. 

"  You  don't  think  I'm  likely  to  stop  in  your  company,  do 
you  'r 

"  Wliosc  expense  have  you  been  drinkinrr  at  ?" 

"My  country's,  young  fellow;  and  mind  you  don't  soon 
feed  at  the  table.     Let  me  go." 

Algernon's  hunger  was  appeased  by  the  prospect  of  some 
excitement,  and  seeing  a  vicious  sliake  administered  to  the 
old  man  by  the  young  one,  he  cried,  "Hands  oil"!"  and 
undertook  policeman's  duty ;  but  as  he  was  not  in  blue,  his 
auiliorilative  mandate  obtained  no  respect  until  he  had 
interposed  his  tist. 

When  he  had  done  so,  he  recognised  the  porter  at  Boyne's 
Bank,  whose  enemj'  retired  upon  the  threat  that  thex'C  should 
be  no  more  pushing  past  him  to  get  back  to  seats  for  the 
next  act. 

"  I  paid,"  said  Anthony;  "  and  you're  a  ticketer,  and  you 
ticketers  shan't  stop  me.  I'm  worth  a  thousand  of  you. 
Holloa,  sir,"  he  cried  to  Algernon  ;  "  I  didn't  know  you.  I'm 
much  obliged.  These  chaps  get  tickets  given  'm,  and  grow 
as  cocky  in  a  theatre  as  men  who  pay.  He  never  had  such 
Avine  in  him  as  I've  got.  That  I'd  swear.  Ha  !  ha !  I  come 
out  for  an  airing  after  every  act,  and  there's  a  whole  pitfuU 
of  ticketers  yelling  and  tearing,  and  I  chaif  my  way  through 
and  back  clean  as  a  redhot  poker." 

Anthony  laughed,  and  i-olled  somewhat  as  he  laughed. 

"  Come  along,  sir,  into  the  street,"  he  said,  boring  on  to 
the  pavement.  "  It's  after  odice  hours.  And,  ha!  ha!  what 
do  you  think  ?  There's  old  farmer  in  there,  afraid  to  move 
off  his  seat,  and  the  girl  with  him,  sticking  to  him  tight,  and 
a  good  girl  too.  She  thinks  we've  had  too  much.  We  been 
to  the  Docks,  wine-tasting  :  Port — Sherry  :  Sherry — Port  ! 
and,  ha !  ha !  '  what  a  lot  of  wine  !'  says  farmer,  never  think- 
ing how  much  he'n  taking  on  board.  '  I  guessed  it  Avas 
night,'  says  farmer,  as  we  got  into  the  air,  and  to  see  him  go 
on  blinking,  and  stumbling,  and  saying  to  me  '  You  stand 
wine,  brother  Tony  i'  I'm  blest  if  I  ain't  bottled  laughter. 
So,  says  I,  'como  and  see  "The  Holly  Berries,"  brother 
William  John  ;  its  the  best  play  in  London,  and  a  suitable 
winter  piece.'  '  Is  there  a  i-ascal  hanged  in  the  piece?'  says 
he.  '  Oh,  yes  !'  I  Jet  him  fancy  there  was,  and  he — ha!  ha! 
old  farmer's  sticking  to  his  seat,  solemn  as  a  judge,  waiting 
for  the  gallows  to  come  on  the  stage." 


AT  THE  THEATRE  89 

^  A  thonglit  quickened  Algernon's  spirit.  It  was  a  noto- 
rious secret  among  the  young  gentlemen  who  assisted  in 
maintaining  the  prosperity  of  Boyne's  Bank,  that  the  old 
porter — the  "  Old  Ant,"  as  he  was  called — possessed  money, 
and  had  no  objection  to  put  out  small  sums  for  a  certain 
interest.  Algernon  mentioned  casually  that  he  had  left  his 
purse  at  home  ;  and  "  by  the  way,"  said  he,  "  have  you  got  a 
few  sovereigns  in  your  pocket  ?" 

"  What !  and  come  through  that  crush,  sir  ?"  Anthony 
negatived  the  question  decisively  with  a  reference  to  his 
general  knowingness. 

Algernon  pressed  hira ;  saying  at  last,  "  Well,  have  you 
got  one  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I've  been  such  a  fool,"  said  Anthony,  feel- 
ing slowly  about  his  person,  and  muttering  as  to  the 
changes  that  might  possibly  have  been  produced  in  him  by 
the  Docks. 

"  Confound  it,  I  haven't  dined  !"  exclaimed  Algernon,  to 
hasten  his  proceedings ;  but  at  this,  Anthony  eyed  him 
queerly.     "  What  have  you  been  about  then,  sir  r'" 

"  Don't  you  see  I'm  in  evening  dress  ?  I  had  an  appoint- 
ment to  dine  with  a  friend.  He  didn't  keep  it.  I  find  I've 
left  my  purse  in  my  other  clothes." 

"  That's  a  bad  habit,  sir,"  was  Anthony's  comment.  "  You 
don't  care  much  for  your  purse." 

"  Much  for  my  purse,  be  hanged  !"  interjected  Algernon. 

"  You'd  have  felt  it,  or  you'd  have  heard  it,  if  there'd  been 
any  weight  in  it,"  Anthony  remarked. 

"  How  can  you  hear  paper  ?" 

"  Oh,  paper's  another  thing.  You  keep  paper  in  your 
viind,  don't  you — eh  ?  Forget  pound  notes  ?  Leave  pound 
notes  in  a  purse  ?  And  you  Sir  William's  nephew,  sir, 
who'd  let  you  bank  with  him  and  put  down  everything  in  a 
book,  so  that  you  couldn't  forget,  or  if  you  did,  he'd  remember 
for  you  ;  and  you  might  change  your  clothes  as  often  as  not, 
and  no  fear  of  your  losing  a  penny." 

Algernon  shmgged  disgustedly,  and  was  giving  the  old 
man  up  as  a  bad  business,  when  Anthony  altered  his  manner. 
•'  Oh !  well,  sir,  I  don't  mind  letting  you  have  what  I've  got. 
I'm  out  for  fun.     Bother  affairs  !" 

The  sum  of  twenty  shillings  was  handed  to  Algernon, 
after  he  had  submitted   to  the   indignity   of  going  into  a 


90  KIIODA  FLEMING. 

pnblic-hoTise,  and  writing  his  I.  O.  U.  for  twentj-three  to 
Anthony  Hackbut,  which  included  interest.  Algernon 
remonstrated  against  so  needless  a  forniality  ;  but  Antlioiiy 
put  the  startling  supposition  to  him,  that  he  might  die  that 
night.  He  signed  the  document,  and  was  soon  feeding  and 
drinking  his  wine.  This  being  accomjdished,  he  took  some 
hasty  pull's  of  tobacco,  and  returned  to  the  theatre,  in  llio 
hope  that  the  dark  gii-l  Khoda  was  to  be  seen  there ;  for  now 
that  he  had  dined,  Anthony's  communication  with  regard  to 
the  farmer  and  his  daughter  became  his  ujjpermost  thought, 
and  a  young  man's  uppermost  thought  is  usually  the  pro- 
pelling engine  to  his  actions. 

By  good  chance,  and  the  aid  of  a  fee,  ho  obtained  a  fiout 
seat,  commanding  an  excellent  side-view  of  the  pit,  which 
sat  wrapt  in  contemplation  of  a  Christmas  scene:  snow,  ice, 
bare  twigs,  a  desolate  house,  and  a  woman  shivering — one 
of  man's  victims. 

It  is  a  good  public  that  of  Britain,  and  will  bear  anything, 
BO  long  as  villany  is  punished,  of  which  there  was  ripe 
promise  in  the  oracular  utterances  of  a  rolling,  stout,  stage- 
sailor,  whose  nose,  to  say  nothing  of  his  frankness  on  the 
subject,  proclaimed  him  his  own  worst  enemy,  and  whose 
joke,  by  dint  of  repetition,  had  almost  become  the  joke  of 
the  audience  too ;  for  whenever  ho  a]ipeared,  there  was 
agitation  in  pit  and  gallery,  which  subsided  only  on  his 
jovial  thundering  of  the  familiar  sentence ;  whereupon 
laughter  ensued,  and  a  quieting  hum  of  satisfaction. 

It  was  a  play  that  had  been  favoured  with  a  great  run. 
Critics  had  once  objected  to  it,  that  it  was  made  to  subsist 
on  scener}'-,  a  song,  and  a  stupid  piece  of  cockneyism  pre- 
tending to  be  a  jest,  that  was  really  no  more  than  a  form  of 
slapping  the  public  on  the  back.  But  the  public  likes  to 
have  its  back  slapped,  and  critics,  frozen  by  the  ^ledusa- 
head  of  Success,  were  soon  taught  manners.  The  oilice  of 
critic  is  now,  in  fact,  virtually  extinct ;  the  taste  for  tickling 
and  sla])ping  is  universal  and  imperative;  classic  appeals 
to  the  intellect,  and  passions  not  purely  domestic,  have 
grown  obsolete.  There  are  captains  of  the  legions,  but  no 
critics.     The  mass  is  lord. 

And  behold  our  frienil  the  sailor  of  the  boards,  whose 
■walk  is  even  as  two  meeting  billows,  appears  upon  the 
lonely  moor,  and  salts  that  uninhabited  region  with  nautical 


AT  THE  THEATRE.  91 

interjections.  Loose  are  his  hose  in  one  part,  tight  in 
another,  and  he  smacks  them.  It  is  cold  ;  so  let  that  be  his 
excuse  for  showing  the  bottom  of  his  bottle  to  the  glitterino* 
spheres.  He  takes  perhaps  a  sturdier  pull  at  the  liquor 
than  becomes  a  manifest  instrument  of  Providence,  whose 
services  may  be  immediately  required;  but  he  informs  us 
that  his  ship  was  never  known  not  to  right  itself  when  called 
upon. 

He  is  alone  in  the  world,  he  tells  us  likewise.  If  his  one 
friend,  the  uplifted  flask,  is  his  enemy,  why  then  he  feels 
bound  to  treat  his  enemy  as  his  fi-iend.  This,  with  a  pathetic 
allusion  to  his  interior  economy,  which  was  applauded,  and 
the  remark  "  Ain't  that  Christian  F"  which  was  just  a  trifle 
risky;  so  he  secured  pit  and  gallery  at  a  stroke  by  a  sur- 
passingly shrewd  blow  at  the  bishops  of  our  Church,  who 
are,  it  can  barely  be  contested,  in  foul  esteem  with  the  mul- 
titude— none  can  say  exactly  for  what  reason — and  must 
submit  to  be  occasionally  offered  up  as  propitiatory  sacrifices. 

This  good  sailor  was  not  always  alone  in  the  world.  A 
sweet  girl,  whom  he  describes  as  reaching  to  his  knee-cap, 
and  pathetically  believes  still  to  be  of  the  same  height,  once 
called  him  brother  Jack.  To  hear  that  name  again  from  her 
lips,  and  a  particular  song  ! — he  attempts  it  ludicrously,  yet 
touchingly  withal. 

Hark  !     Is  it  an  echo  from  a  spirit  in  the  frigid  air  ? 

The  song  trembled  with  a  silver  ring  to  the  remotest 
corners  of  the  house. 

At  that  moment  the  breathless  hush  of  the  audience  was 
flurried  by  hearing  "  Dahlia  "  called  from  the  pit. 

Algernon  had  been  spying  among  the  close-packed  faces 
for  a  sight  of  Rhoda.  Rhoda  was  now  standing  up  amid 
gathering  hisses  and  outcries.  Her  eyes  were  bent  on  a 
particular  box,  across  which  a  curtain  was  hastily  being 
drawn.  "My  sister!"  she  sent  out  a  voice  of  anguish,  and 
remained  with  clasped  hands  and  twisted  eyebrows,  looking 
passionately  toward  that  one  spot,  as  if  she  would  have 
flown  to  it.  A  glance  showed  that  she  was  wedged  in  the 
mass,  and  could  not  move. 

The  exclamation  heard  had  belonged  to  brother  Jack,  on 
the  stage,  whose  burst  of  fraternal  surprise  and  i-apture  fell 
flat  after  it,  to  the  disgust  of  numbers  keenly  awakened  for 
the  sentiment  of  this  scene. 


92  EnODA  FLEMIXa. 

Roaring'  accusations  that  she  was  drunlc ;  that  she  had 
jnst  escaped  from  Bedlam  for  an  evening;  that  she  should 
be  gagged  and  tui-iu'd  headlong  out,  surnniuded  her;  but 
she  stood  like  a  sculptured  ligure,  vital  in  her  eyes  alone. 
The  farmer  put  his  arm  about  his  girl's  waist.  The  instant, 
however,  that  Anthony's  head  uprose  on  the  other  side  of 
her,  the  evil  reputation  ho  had  been  gaining  for  himself  all 
through  the  evening  produced  a  general  clamour,  over  wliieli 
the  gallery  played,  miauling,  and  yelping  like  doLrs  that  ai-e 
never  to  be  divorced  from  a  noise.  Algernon  feared  mis- 
chief.    He  quitted  his  seat,  and  ran  out  into  the  lobby. 

Half-a-dozeu  steps,  and  he  came  in  contact  with  some  one, 
and  they  were  mutuiilly  di-encbed  Avith  water  by  the  shock. 
It  was  liis  cousin  Edwai-d,  bearing  a  glass  in  liis  haiul. 

Algernon's  wrath  at  the  sight  of  this  oifcnder  was  stimu- 
lated by  the  cold  bath  ;  but  Edward  cut  him  short. 

"  Go  in  there  ;"  he  pointed  to  a  box-door,  "A  lady  has 
fainted.     Hold  her  up  till  I  come." 

No  time  was  allowed  for  explanation.  Algernon  passed 
into  the  box,  and  was  alone  with  an  inanimate  shape  in  blue 
bournous.  The  uproar  in  the  theatre  i-aged  ;  the  whole  pit 
•was  on  its  legs  and  shouting.  He  lifted  the  pallid  head  over 
one  arm,  miserably  helpless  and  perplexed,  but  his  anxiety 
concerning  llhoda's  perso7ial  safety  in  that  sea  of  strife 
prompted  him  to  draw  back  the  curtain  a  little,  and  he  stood 
exposed.  Rhoda  perceived  him.  She  niDtioned  with  both 
her  hands  in  dumb  supplication.  In  a  moment  the  curtain 
closed  between  them,  Edward's  sharp  white  face  cursed 
him  mutely  for  his  folly,  while  he  turned  and  put  the  water 
to  Dahlia's  lips,  and  touched  her  forehead  with  it, 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  whispered  Algernon. 

"  We  must  get  her  out  as  quick  as  we  can.  This  is  the 
■way  with  women  !  Come!  she's  recovering."  Edward  nursed 
her  sternly  as  he  spoke. 

"  If  she  doesn't,  pretty  soon,  we  shall  have  the  pit  in  upon 
us,"  said  Algci-non.     "  Is  she  that  gild's  sister  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  damned  questions." 

Dahlia  opened  her  eyes,  staring  placidly. 

"Now  vou  can  stand  up,  my  dear.  Dahlia!  all's  well. 
Try,"  said  Edward. 

She  sighed,  murmuring,  "  What  is  the  time  ?"  and  again, 
"  What  noise  is  it  F" 


THE  PARMER  SPEAKS.  93 

Edward  conghed  in  a  vexed  attempt  at  tenderness,  using 
all  his  force  to  be  gentle  with  her  as  he  brought  her  to  her 
feet.  The  task  was  difficult  amid  the  threatening  storm  in 
the  theatre,  and  cries  of  "  Show  the  young  woman  her 
sister !"  for  Rhoda  had  won  a  party  in  the  humane  public. 

"  Dahlia,  in  God's  name  give  me  your  help !"  Edward 
called  in  her  ear. 

The  fair  girl's  eyelids  blinked  -wretchedly  in  prote3tation 
of  her  weakness.  She  had  no  will  either  way,  and  suffered 
herself  to  be  led  out  of  the  box,  supported  by  the  two  young 
men. 

"  Run  for  a  cab,"  said  Edward  ;  and  Algernon  went 
ahead. 

He  had  one  waiting  for  them  as  they  came  out.  They 
placed  Dahlia  on  a  seat  with  care,  and  Edward,  jumping  in, 
drew  an  arm  tightly  about  her.     "  I  can't  cry,"  she  moaned. 

The  cab  was  driving  off  as  a  crowd  of  people  burst  from 
the  pit-doors,  and  Algernon  heard  the  voice  of  Farmer  Flem- 
ing, very  hoarse.     He  had  discretion  enough  to  retire. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


THE     FARMER     SPEAKS. 


Robert  was  to  drive  to  the  station  to  meet  Rhoda  and  her 
father  returning  from  London,  on  a  specified  day.  He  was 
eager  to  be  asking  cheerful  questions  of  Dahlia's  health  and 
happiness,  so  that  he  might  dispel  the  absurd  general  belief 
that  he  had  ever  loved  the  girl,  and  was  now  regretting  her 
absence ;  but  one  look  at  Rhoda's  face  when  she  stepped 
from  the  railway  carriage  kept  him  from  uttering  a  word  on 
that  subject,  and  the  fai-mer's  heavier  droop  and  acceptance 
of  a  helping  hand  into  the  cart,  were  signs  of  bad  import. 

Mr.  Fleming  made  no  show  of  gi'ief,  like  one  who  nursed 
it.  He  took  it  to  all  appearance  as  patiently  as  an  old  worn 
horse  would  do,  although  such  an  outward  submissiveness 
■will  not  always  indicate  a  placid  spirit  in  men.  He  talked 
at  stale  intervals  of  the  weather  and  the  state  of  the  ground 
along  the  line  of  rail  down  home,  and  pointed  in  contempt 


94  TinoDA  PLEMma, 

or  approval  to  a  Sold  here  and  there ;  but  it  was  as  one  who 
no  longer  had  any  professional  interest  in  the  tilling  of  the 
land. 

Doubtless  he  was  trained  to  have  no  understanding  of  a 
good  to  be  derived  by  liis  communicating  what  he  felt  and 
getting  symjtatliy.  Once,  when  he  was  uncertain,  and  a 
secret  pride  in  Dalilia's  beauty  and  accomplishments  had 
wliispercd  to  him  that  her  flight  was  possibly  the  opening  of 
her  road  to  a  higher  fortune,  he  made  a  noise  for  comfort, 
believing  in  his  heart  that  she  was  still  to  be  forgiven.  He 
knew  better  now.  By  holding  his  peace  he  locked  out  the 
sense  of  shame  which  speech  would  have  stirred  withia 
him. 

''  Got  on  pretty  smooth  with  old  Mas'  Gammon  ?"  he  ex- 
pressed his  hope ;  and  Robert  said,  "  Capitally.  We  shall 
make  something  out  of  the  old  man  yet,  never  fear." 

^Master  Gammon  was  condemned  to  serve  at  the  ready-set 
tea-table  as  a  butt  for  banter ;  otherwise  it  was  apprehended 
well  that  Mrs.  Sumfit  would  have  scorched  the  ears  of  all 
present,  save  the  happy  veteran  of  the  furrows,  with  repeti- 
tions of  Dahlia's  name,  and  wailings  about  her  darling,  of 
whom  no  one  spoke.  They  suffered  from  her  in  spite  of 
every  precaution. 

'■  Well,  then,  if  I'm  not  to  hear  anything  dooring  meals — 
as  if  I'd  swallow  it  and  take  it  into  my  stomach  ! — I'll  wait 
again  for  what  ye've  got  to  tell,"  she  said,  and  finished  her 
cup  at  a  gulp,  smoothing  her  apron. 

The  farmer  then  lifted  his  head. 

"  Mother,  if  you've  done,  you'll  oblige  me  by  going  to  bed,** 
he  said.     "  We  want  the  kitchen." 

"  A-bed?"  cried  Mrs.  Sumlit,  with  instantly  ruffled 
lap. 

"Upstairs,  mother;  when  you've  done — not  before." 

"  Then  bad's  the  noos !  Something  have  happened,  Wil- 
liam. You'm  not  going  to  push  me  out  ?  And  my  place  ia 
by  the  tea-pot,  which  I  cling  to,  rememherin'  how  I  seen  her 
curly  head  gi-ovv  by  inches  up  above  the  table  and  the  cups. 
Mas'  Gammon,"  she  appealed  to  the  sturdy  feeder,  "  five 
cups  is  your  number  ?" 

ller  hope  was  reduced  to  the  prolonging  of  the  service  of 
tea,  with  Master  Gammon's  kind  assistance. 

"  Four,   marm,"   said   her    inveterate   antagonist,    as    he 


THE  FARMER  SPEAKS.  95 

finislied  ttat  amount,  and  consequently  put  the  spoon  in  his 
cup. 

Mrs.  Sumfit  rolled  in  her  chair. 

"  0  Lord,  Mas'  Gammon !  Five,  I  say  ;  and  never  a  cup 
less  so  long  as  here  you've  been." 

"  Four,  marm.  I  don't  know,"  said  Master  Gammon,  with 
a  slow  nod  of  his  head,  "  that  ever  I  took  five  cups  of  tea  at 
a  stretch.     I^ot  runuin'." 

"  I  do  know,  Mas'  Gammon.  And  ought  to :  for  don't  I 
pour  out  to  ye  ?  It's  five  you  take,  and  please,  your  cup,  if 
you'll  hund  it  over." 

"  Four's  my  number,  marm,"  Master  Gammon  reiterated 
resolutely.     He  sat  like  a  rock. 

"  If  they  was  dumplins,"  moaned  Mrs.  Sumfit,  "  not  four, 
no,  nor  five,  'd  do  till  enough  you'd  had,  and  here  we  might 
stick  to  our  chaii"S,  but  you'd  go  on  and  on ;  you  know  you 
would." 

"  That's  eatin',  marm  ;"  Master  Gammon  condescended  to 
explain  the  nature  of  his  habits.  "  I'm  reg'lar  in  my 
drinkin'." 

Mrs.  Sumfit  smote  her  hands  together.  "  Oh  Lord,  Mas' 
Gammon,  the  wearisomest  old  man  I  ever  come  across  is  you. 
More  tea's  in  the  pot,  and  it  ain't  watery,  and  you  won't  be 
comfortable.  May  you  get  forgiveness  from  above  !  is  all  I 
say,  and  I  say  no  more.  Mr.  Robert,  perhaps  you'll  be  so 
good  as  let  me  help  you,  sir  ?  It's  good  tea ;  and  my  Dody," 
she  added,  cajolingly,  "  my  home  girl  '11  tell  us  what  she 
saw.     I'm  pinched  and  starved  to  hear." 

"By-and-by,  mother,"  interposed  the  farmer;  "to-morrow." 
He  spoke  gently,  but  frowned. 

Both  Bhoda  and  Robert  perceived  that  they  were  pecu- 
liarly implicated  in  the  business  which  was  to  be  discussed 
without  Mrs.  Sumfit's  assistance.  Her  father's  manner  for- 
bade Rhoda  from  making  any  proposal  for  the  relief  of  the 
forlorn  old  woman. 

"  And  me  not  to  hear  to-night  about  your  play-going  !" 
sighed  Mrs.  Sumfit.  "  Oh,  it's  hard  on  me.  I  do  call  it 
cruel.     And  how  my  sweet  was  dressed — like  as  for  a  Ball." 

She  saw  the  farmer  move  his  foot  impatiently. 

"  Then,  if  nobody  drinks  this  remaining  cup,  I  will,"  she 
pursued. 

No  voice  save  her  own  was  heard  till  the  cup  was  emptied, 


96  RIIODA  PLEMINO. 

apon  which  Master  Gammon,  according  to  his  'wont,  departed 
for  bed  to  avoid  the  seduction  of  suppers,  which  he  shunned 
as  ap(){)lectic,  and  Mrs.  Sumtit  prepared,  in  a  desohite  way, 
to  wash  the  tea-things,  but  the  farmer,  saying  tliat  it  could 
be  done  in  the  morning,  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it  for 
her. 

She  fetched  a  great  sigh  and  folded  her  hands  resignedly. 
As  she  was  passing  him  to  make  her  miserable  enforced 
exit,  the  heavy  severity  of  his  face  afflicted  her  with  a  deep 
alarm ;  she  fell  on  her  knees,  crying — 

"  Oh,  William  !  it  ain't  for  sake  of  hearin'  talk ;  but  you, 
that  went  to  see  our  Dahly,  the  blossom,  've  come  back 
streaky  under  the  eyes,  and  you  make  the  house  feel  as  if 
we  neighboured  Judgement  Day.  Down  to  tea  you  set  the 
first  moment,  and  me  alone  with  none  of  you,  and  my  love 
for  my  girl  knoA\Ti  well  to  you.  And  now  to  be  marched  off! 
How  can  I  go  a-bed  and  sleep,  and  my  heart  jumps  so?  It 
ain't  Christian  to  ask  me  to.  I  got  a  heart,  dear,  I  have. 
Do  give  a  bit  of  comfort  to  it.  Only  a  word  of  my  Dahly  to 
me." 

The  farmer  replied :  "  Mother,  let's  have  no  woman's 
nonsense.  What  we've  got  to  bear,  let  us  bear.  And  you 
go  on  your  knees  to  the  Lord,  and  don't  be  a  heathen  woman, 
I  say.  Get  up.  There's  a  Bible  in  your  bed-room.  Find 
yo'.i  out  comfort  in  that." 

"  No,  AVilliam,  no !"  she  sobbed,  still  kneeling  :  "  there 
ain't  a  dose  o'  comfoi-t  there  when  poor  souls  is  in  the  dark, 
and  haven't  got  patience  for  passages.  And  me  and  my 
Bible ! — how  can  I  read  it,  and  not  know  my  ailing,  and 
astract  one  good  word,  William  ?  It'll  seem  only  the  devil's 
shootin'  black  lightnings  across  the  page,  as  poor  blessed 
granny  used  to  say,  and  she  believed  witches  could  do  it  to 
3-0U  in  her  time,  when  they  was  evil-minded.  No  !  To-night 
I  look  on  the  binding  of  the  Holy  Book,  and  I  don't,  and 
I  won't,  I  shan't  open  it." 

This  violent  end  to  her  petition  was  wrought  by  the 
farmer  grasping  her  arm  to  bring  her  to  her  feet. 

"  Go  to  bed,  mother." 

"  I  shan't  open  it,"  she  repeated,  defiantly.  "  And  it 
ain't,"  she  galhered  up  her  comfortable  fat  person  to  assist 
the  words — "  it  ain't  good — no,  not  the  best  pious  ones — I 
Khali,  and  will  say  it !  as  is  al'ays  ready  to  smack  your  face 
with  the  Bible." 


THE  FAEMRR  SPEAKS.  C7 

"TTow,  don't  ye  be  angry,"  said  the  farmer. 

She  softened  instantly. 

"  William,  dear,  I  got  fifty-seven  ponnds  stei'Hng,  and  odd 
Bhillings,  in  a  Savings-bank,  and  that  I  meant  to  go  to 
Dahly,  and  not  to  yond'  dark  thing  sitting  there  so  sullen, 
and  me  in  my  misery  ;  I'd  give  it  to  you  now  for  news  of  my 
darlin'.  Yes,  William ;  and  my  poor  husband's  cottage,  in 
Sussex — seventeen  pound  per  annum.  That,  if  you'll  be 
goodness  itself,  and  let  me  hear  a  word." 

"  Take  her  upstairs,"  said  the  farmer  to  Rhoda,  and  Rhoda 
■went  by  her  and  took  her  hands,  and  by  dint  of  pushing 
from  behind  and  dragging  in  front,  Mrs.  Sumfit,  as  near  on 
a  shriek  as  one  so  fat  and  sleek  could  be,  was  ejected.  The 
farmer  and  Robert  heard  her  struggles  and  exclamations 
along  the  passag-e,  but  her  resistance  subsided  very  suddenly. 

"There's  power  in  that  gii4,"  said  the  farmer,  standing  by 
the  shut  door. 

Robert  thought  so,  too.  It  aifected  his  imagination,  and 
his  heart  began  to  beat  sickeningly. 

"  Perhaps  she  promised  to  speak — what  has  happened, 
whatever  that  may  be,"  he  suggested. 

"  K^ot  she  ;  not  she.     She  respects  my  wishes.'* 

Robert  did  not  ask  what  had  happened. 

Mr.  Fleming  remained  by  the  door,  and  shut  his  mouth 
from  a  further  word  till  he  heard  Rhoda's  returning  foot- 
step. He  closed  the  door  again  behind  her,  and  went  up  to 
the  square  deal  table,  leaned  his  body  forward  on  the 
knuckles  of  his  trembling  fist,  and  said,  "  We're  pretty  well 
broken  up,  as  it  is.     I've  lost  my  taste  for  life." 

There  he  paused.  Save  by  the  shining  of  a  wet  forehead, 
his  face  betrayed  nothing  of  the  anguish  he  suffered.  He 
looked  at  neither  of  them,  but  sent  his  gaze  straight  away 
tinder  labouring  brows  to  an  arm  of  the  fireside  chair,  while 
his  shoulders  drooped  on  the  wavering  support  of  his  hard- 
shut  hands.  Rhoda's  eyes,  ox-like,  as  were  her  father's 
smote  full  upon  Robert's,  as  in  a  pang  of  apprehension  of 
what  was  about  to  be  uttered. 

It  was  a  quick  blaze  of  light,  wherein  he  saw  that  the 
girl's  spii-it  was  not  with  him.  He  would  have  stopped  the 
farmer  at  once,  but  he  had  not  the  heart  to  do  it,  even  had 
he  felt  in  himself  strength  to  attract  an  intelligent  response 
from  that  strange,  grave,  bovine  fixity  of  look,  over  which 

H 


98  EHODA  FLEMING. 

the  hnman  misery  sat  as  a  thing  not  yet  taken  into  the  dull 
bruin. 

"Mv  taste  for  life,"  the  old  man  resumed,  "that's  gone. 
I  didn't  bargain  at  set-oiit  to  go  on  lighting  agen  the  ^vorld. 
It's  too  mnch  for  a  man  o'  my  years.  Here's  the  farm. 
Sliall't  go  to  pieces  ?  I'm  a  fanner  of  thirty  year  baok — 
thirty  year  back,  and  more.  I'm  about  no  better  'n  a  farm 
labourer  in  our  time,  which  is  to-day.  I  don't  cost  much. 
I  ask  to  be  fed,  and  to  work  for  it,  and  to  see  my  poor  bit  o' 
projierty  safe,  as  handed  to  me  by  my  father.  Kot  for  myself, 
't  ain't ;  though  perhaps  there's  a  bottom  of  pride  there  too, 
as  in  most  things.  Say  it's  for  the  name.  My  father  seems  to 
demand  of  me  out  loud,  'AVhat  ha'  ye  done  with  Queen 
i\nne's  Farm,  William?"  and  there's  a  holler  echo  in  my  ears. 
Well;  God  wasn't  merciful  to  give  me  a  son.  He  give  me 
daughters." 

j\Lr.  Fleming  bowed  his  head  as  to  the  very  weapon  of 
chastisement. 

"  Daughters  !"     He  bent  lower. 

His  hearers  might  have  imagined  his  headless  address  to 
them  to  be  also  without  a  distinct  termination,  for  he  seemed 
to  have  ended  as  abruptly  as  he  had  begun  ;  so  long  was  the 
pause  before,  with  a  wearied  lifting  of  his  body,  he  pursued, 
in  a  stci-ner  voice  : 

"  Don't  let  none  interrupt  me."  His  hand  was  raised  as 
toward  where  Rhoda  stood,  but  he  sent  no  look  with  it ;  the 
direction  was  wide  of  her. 

The  aspect  of  the  blank  blind  hand  motioning  to  the  wall 
away  from  her,  smote  an  awe  through  her  soul  that  kept  her 
dumb,  though  his  next  words  were  like  thrusts  of  a  dagger 

in  her  side.  ^ 

"  My  first  girl — she's  brought  disgrace  on  this  house.  She  s 
got  a  mother  in  heaven,  and  tliat  mother's  got  to  blush  for 
her.     J\ly  first  girl's  gone  to  harlotry  in  London." 

It  was  Scriptural  severity  of  s])eech.  Kobert  glanced  quick 
with  intense  commiseration  at  Rhoda.  He  saw  her  hands 
travel  upward  till  they  fixed  in  at  her  temples  with  crossed 
fintrers,  making  the  pressure  of  an  iron  band  for  her  head, 
wliile  her  lips  parted,  and  her  teeth,  and  cheeks,  and  eyeballs 
were  all  of  one  whiteness.  Her  tragic,  even,  in  and  out 
breathing,  where  there  was  no  fall  of  the  breast,  but  the  air 
was  taken'  and  given,  as  it  were  the  square  blade  of  a  sharp- 


THE  PAEMEE  SPEAKS.  99 

edged  sword,  was  dreadful  to  see.      She   had  the  look  of  a 
risen  corpse,  recalling  some  one  of  the  bloody  ends  of  life. 

The  farmer  went  on — 

"  Bury  her !  Now  you  here  know  the  worst.  There's  my 
second  girl.  She's  got  no  stain  on  her  ;  if  people  '11  take  her 
for  what  she  is  herself.  She's  idle.  But  I  believe  the  flesh 
on  her  bones  she'd  wear  away  for  anyone  that  touched  her 
heart.  She's  a  temper.  But  she's  clean  both  in  body  and  in 
spirit,  as  I  believe,  and  say  before  my  God.  I — what  I'd 
pi-ay  for  is,  to  see  this  girl  safe.  All  I  have  shall  go  to  her. 
That  is,  to  the  man  who  will — won't  be  ashamed — marry  her, 
I  mean!" 

The  tide  of  his  harshness  failed  him  here,  and  he  began  to 
pick  his  words,  now  feeble,  now  emphatic,  but  alike  wanting 
in  natural  expression,  for  he  had  reached  a  point  of  emotion 
upon  the  limits  of  his  nature,  and  he  was  now  wilfully  forcing 
for  misery  and  humiliation  right  and  left,  in  part  to  show 
what  a  black  star  Providence  had  been  over  him. 

"  She'll  be  giateful.  1  shall  be  gone.  What  disgrace 
I  bring  to  their  union,  as  father  of  the  other  one  also,  will, 
I'm  bound  to  hope,  be  buried  with  me  in  my  grave  ;  so  that 
this  girl's  husband  shan't  have  to  complain  that  her  character 
and  her  working  for  him  ain't  enough  to  cover  any  harm  he's 
like  to  think  o'  the  connexion.  And  he  won't  be  troubled  by 
relationships  after  that. 

"  I  used  to  think  Pride  a  bad  thing.  I  thank  God  we've 
all  got  it  in  our  blood — the  Flemings.  I  thank  God  for  that 
now,  I  do.  We  don't  face  again  them  as  we  offend.  Not, 
that  is,  with  the  hand  out.  We  go.  We're  seen  no  more. 
And  shell  be  seen  no  more.     On  that,  rely. 

"  I  want  my  girl  here  not  to  keep  me  in  the  fear  of  death. 
For  I  fear  death  while  she's  not  safe  in  somebody's  hands — 
kind,  if  I  can  get  him  for  her.     Somebody — young  or  old  !" 

The  farmer  lifted  his  head  for  the  first  time,  and  stared 
vacantly  at  Robert. 

"  I'd  marry  her,"  he  said,  "  if  I  was  knowing  myself  dying 
now  or  to-morrow  morning,  I'd  m;  rr/  her,  rather  than  leave 
her  alone — I'd  mai-ry  her  to  that  old  man,  old  Gammon." 

The  farmer  pointed  to  the  ceiling.  His  sombre  seriousness 
cloaked  and  carried  even  that  suggestive  indication  to  the 
possible  bridegroom's  age  and  habits,  and  all  things  asso- 

h2 


100  EHODA  FLEMINO. 

ciated   with  him,  throujrh  the  gates  of  ridicule ;   and  there 
"was  no  laughter,  and  no  thought  of  it. 

"  It  stands  to  reason  for  me  to  prefer  a  young  man  for  her 
husband.  He'll  farm  the  estate,  and  won't  sell  it ;  so  that  it 
goes  to  our  blood,  if  not  to  a  Fleming.  If,  I  mean,  he's  con- 
tent to  farm  soberly,  and  not  play  Jack  o'  Lantern  tricks 
across  his  own  acres.  Right  in  one  thing's  riglit,  I  graTit ; 
but  don't  argue  right  in  all.  It's  right  only  in  one  thing. 
Young  men,  when  they've  made  a  true  hit  or  so,  they're  ready 
to  tliink  it's  themselves  tliat's  riglit." 

This  was  of  course  a  reminder  of  the  old  feud  with  Robert, 
and  sufficiently  showed  whom  the  farmer  had  in  view  for  a 
husband  to  Rhoda,  if  any  doubt  existed  previously. 

Having  raised  his  eyes,  his  unwonted  power  of  speech 
abandoned  him,  and  he  concluded,  wavering  in  look  and  in 
tone — 

"  I'd  half  forgotten  her  uncle.  I've  reckoned  his  riches 
when  I  cared  for  riches.  I  can't  say  th'  amount ;  but,  all — 
I've  had  his  word  for  it — all  goes  to  this — God  knows  how 
much  ! — girl.  And  he  don't  hesitate  to  say  .she's  worth  a 
young  man's  fancying.  May  be  so.  It  depends  upon  ideas 
mainly,  that  does.  All  goes  to  her.  And  this  fai-m. — I  w  ish 
ye  good-night." 

He  gave  them  no  other  sign,  but  walked  in  his  oppressed 
way  quietly  to  the  inner  door,  and  forth,  leaving  the  rest  to 
them. 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

BETWEEN  RHODA  AND  ROBERT. 


,  TnE  two  were  together,  and  all  preliminary  difTlculties 
had  been  cleared  for  Robert  to  say  what  he  had  to  say,  in  a 
manner  to  make  the  saying  of  it  well-nigh  impossible.  And 
yet  silence  might  be  misinterpreted  by  her.  He  would  have 
drawn  her  to  his  heart  at  one  sign  of  tenderness.  There 
came  none.  The  girl  was  flight  fully  torn  with  a  great 
^vound  of  shame.  !She  was  the  lirst  to  speak. 
"  Do  you  believe  what  father  says  of  my  sister  ?" 


BETWEEN  KHODA  AND  EGBERT.  101 

«  That  ste ?"    Robert  swallowed  the  words.     «  ISTo  !" 

and  he  made  a  thunder  with  his  fist. 

"K'o!"  She  drank  up  the  word.  "You  do  not?  ]S"o ! 
You  know  that  Dahlia  is  innocent  ?" 

Rhoda  was  trembling  with  a  look  for  the  asseveration ; 
her  pale  face  eager  as  a  cry  for  life  ;  but  the  answer  did  not 
come  at  once  hotly  as  her  passion  for  it  demanded.  She 
grew  rigid,  murmuring  faintly  :  "  Speak  !     Do  speak  !" 

His  eyes  fell  away  from  hers.  Sweet  love  would  have 
wrought  in  him  to  think  as  she  thought,  but  she  kept  her 
heart  closed  from  him,  and  he  stood  sadly  judicial,  with  a 
conscience  of  his  own,  that  would  not  permit  him  to  declare 
Dahlia  innocent,  for  he  had  long  been  imagining  the  reverse. 

Rhoda  pressed  her  hands  convulsively,  moaning  "  Oh  !" 
down  a  short  deep  breath. 

"  Tell  me  what  has  happened  ?"  said  Robert,  made  mad 
by  that  reproachful  agony  of  her  voice.  "  I'ra  in  the  dark. 
I'm  not  equal  to  you  all.  If  Dahlia's  sister  wants  one  to 
stand  up  for  her,  and  defend  her,  whatever  she  has  done  or 
not  done,  ask  me.     Ask  me,  and  I'll  revenge  her.     Here  am 

I,  and  I  know  nothing,  and  you  despise  me  because don't 

think  me  rude  or  unkind.  This  hand  is  yours,  if  you  will. 
Come,  Rhoda.  Or,  let  me  hear  the  case,  and  I'll  satisfy  you 
as  best  I  can.  Feel  for  her  ?  I  feel  for  her  as  you  do.  Yoa 
don't  want  me  to  stand  a  liar  to  your  question  ?  How  can  I 
speak  ?" 

A  woman's  instinct  at  red  heat  pierces  the  partial  dis- 
ingenuousness  which  Robert  could  only  have  avoided  by 
declaring  the  doubts  he  entertained.  Rhoda  desired  simply 
to  be  supported  by  his  conviction  of  her  sister's  innocence, 
and  she  had  scorn  of  one  who  would  not  chivalrously  advance 
upon  the  risks  of  right  and  wi^ong,  and  rank  himself  prime 
champion  of  a  woman  belied,  absent,  and  so  helpless.  Be- 
sides, there  was  but  one  virtue  possible  in  Rhoda's  ideas,  as 
regarded  Dahlia : — to  oppose  facts,  if  necessary,  and  have  her 
innocent  perforce,  and  fight  to  the  death  them  that  dai-ed  cast 
slander  on  the  beloved  head. 

Her  keen  instinct  served  her  so  far. 

His  was  alive  when  she  refused  to  tell  him  what  had  taken 
place  during  their  visit  to  London. 

She  felt  that  a  man  would  judge  evil  of  the  circumstances. 
Her  father  and  her  uncle  had  done  so ;  she  felt  that  Robert 


102  EnonA  flemino. 

would.  Love  for  Lim  would  have  prompted  her  to  confide 
in  him  absolutoly.  Hhc  was  not  softened  by  love  ;  there  was 
no  fire  on  licr  side  to  melt  and  make  them  run  in  one  stream, 
and  tlu-y  eould  not  meet. 

"Tlien,  if  you  will  not  tell  me,"  said  Robert,  "say  what 
you  think  of  your  father's  proposal  ?  He  meant  that  I  may 
ask  you  to  be  my  wile.  He  used  to  fancy  I  eared  for  your 
sister.  That's  false.  I  care  for  her — yes;  as  my  sister  too ; 
and  here  is  my  hand  to  do  my  utmost  for  her,  but  I  love  you, 
and  I've  loved  you  foi-  some  time.  Id  be  ])ruud  to  maiTy 
you  and  help  on  with  the  old  farm.  You  don't  love  me  yet 
— which  is  a  pretty  hard  thinp^  for  me  to  si-e  to  be  certain 
of.  But  I  love  you,  and  I  trust  3-ou.  I  like  the  stuff  you're 
made  of — and  nice  stuff  I'm  talking  to  a  young  woman,"  he 
added,  wiping  his  forehead  at  the  idea  of  the  fair  and  flatter- 
ing addresses  young  women  expect  when  they  are  being 
wooed. 

As  it  was,  Ehoda  listened  with  savage  contempt  of  his 
idle  talk.  Her  brain  was  beating  at  the  mystery  ajul  misery 
wherein  Dahlia  lay  engulphed.  She  had  no  undi-rstanding 
for  Robert's  sentimentality,  or  her  father's  requisition.  Some 
answer  had  to  be  given,  and  she  said  : — 

"  I'm  not  likely*to  marry  a  man  who  supposes  he  has  any- 
thing to  pardon." 

"  1  don't  suppose  it,"  cried  Robert. 

"You  heai'd  what  father  said." 

"  I  heard  what  he  said,  but  I  don't  think  the  same.  What 
has  Dahlia  to  do  with  you  ?" 

He  w^as  proceeding  to  i-ectify  this  unlucky  sentence.  All 
her  covert  hostility  burst  out  on  it. 

"  My  sister  ? — what  has  my  sister  to  do  with  me  ? — you 
mean! — you  mean! — you  can  only  mean  that  we  are  to  bo 
sepai-ated  and  thought  of  as  two  people  ;  and  we  are  one,  and 
will  be  till  we  die.  1  feel  my  sister's  hand  in  mine,  though 
she's  away  and  lost.  She  is  my  darling  for  ever  and  ever. 
We're  one!" 

A  spasm  of  anguish  checked  the  gii'l. 

"  I  mean,"  Robert  resumed  steadily,  "that  her  conduct, 
good  or  bad,  doesn't  touch  you.  If  it  <lid.  il'd  be  the  same 
to  me.  I  ask  you  to  take  me  foryoui'  hushaiid.  Just  reflect 
on  what  your  father  said,  Rhoda." 

The  horrible  utterance  her  father's  lips  had  been  guilty  of 


BETWEEN  RHODA  AND  ROBERT.  103 

flasted  tliroiigli  her,  filling'  her  with  mastering-  vindictive- 
ness,  now  that  she  had  a  victim. 

"  Yes !  I'm  to  take  a  husband  to  remind  me  of  what  he 
said." 

Robert  eyed  her  sharpened  month  admiringly;  her  defence 
of  her  sister  had  excited  his  esteem,  wilfully  though  she 
rebutted  his  straightforward  earnestness :  and  he  had  a  feel- 
ing also  for  the  easy  turns  of  her  neck,  and  the  confident 
poise  of  her  figure. 

"Ha!  well!"  he  interjected,  with  his  eyebrows  queerly 
raised,  so  that  she  could  make  nothing  of  his  look.  It  seemed 
half  maniacal,  it  was  so  ridged  with  bright  eagei'ncss. 

"  By  heaven !  the  task  of  taming  you — that's  the  blessing 
I'd  beg  for  in  my  prayers !  Though  you  were  as  wild  as  a 
cat  of  the  woods,  by  heaven !  I'd  rather  have  the  taming  of 
you  than  go  about  with  a  leash  of  quiet,"  he  checked  him- 
self   "  companions." 

Such  was  the  sudden  roll  of  his  tongue,  that  she  was  lost 
in  the  astounding  lead  he  had  taken,  and  stared. 

"  You're  the  beauty  to  my  taste,  and  devil  is  what  I  want 
in  a  woman  !  I  can  make  something  out  of  a  girl  with  a 
temper  like  yours.  You  don't  know  me,  ]\Iiss  Rhoda.  I'm 
what  you  reckon  a  good  young  man.     Isn't  that  it  ?" 

Robert  drew  up  with  a  very  hard  smile. 

"  I  would  to  God  I  were !  Mind,  I  feel  for  you  about  your 
sister.  I  like  you  the  better  for  holding  to  her  through  thick 
and  thin.  But  my  sheepishness  has  gone,  and  I  tell  you  I'll 
have  you  whether  you  will  or  no.  I  can  help  you  and  you 
can  help  me.  I've  lived  here  as  if  I  had  no  more  fii^e  in  nie 
than  old  Gammon  snoring  on  his  pillow  up  aloft ;  and  who 
kept  me  to  it  ?  Did  you  see  I  never  touched  liquor  ?  What 
did  you  guess  from  that  ? — that  I  was  a  mild  sort  of  fellow  ? 
So  I  am :  but  1  haven't  got  that  reputation  m  other  parts. 
Your  father  'd  like  me  to  marry  you,  and  I'm  ready.  Who 
kept  me  to  woi-k,  so  that  I  might  learn  to  farm,  and  be  a  man, 
and  be  able  to  take  a  wife  ?  I  came  he^-e — I'll  tell  you  how. 
I  was  a  useless  dog.  I  ran  from  home  and  served  as  a 
trooper.  An  old  aunt  of  mine  left  me  a  little  money,  which 
just  woke  me  up  and  gave  me  a  lift  of  what  conscience  I  had, 
and  I  bought  myself  out. 

"  1  chanced  to  see  your  father's  advertisement — came, 
looked  at  you  all,  and  liked  you — brought  my  traps  and  set- 


104  EnODA  PLEMINO. 

tied  nmonEr  yon,  and  lived  like  a  p-ood  TonnGr  man.  T  like 
peace  and  ordeiliness,  I  find.  I  always  thought  I  did,  ■when 
I  Tvas  dancing'  like  mad  to  hell.  I  know  I  do  now,  and 
you're  the  girl  to  keep  me  to  it.  I've  learnt  that  much  by 
degrees.  With  any  other,  I  should  have  been  playing  the 
fool,  and  going  my  old  ways,  long  ago.  I  should  have 
wi-eeked  her,  and  drunk  to  forget.  You're  my  match.  By- 
and-by  you'll  know  me  yours  !  You  never  gave  me,  or  any- 
body else  that  I've  seen,  sly  sidelooks. 

"  Come !  I'll  speak  out  now  I'm  at  work.  I  thought  you 
at  some  girl's  games  in  the  Summer.  You  went  out  one  day 
to  meet  a  young  geiitlcman.  Offence  or  no  offence,  I  speak 
and  you  listen.  You  did  go  out.  I  was  in  love  with  you 
then,  too.  I  saw  London  had  been  doing  its  mischief.  I 
was  down  about  it.  I  felt  that  he  would  make  nothing  of 
you,  but  I  chose  to  take  the  care  of  you,  and  you've  hated 
me  ever  since. 

"  That  Mr.  Algernon  Blancove's  a  rascal.  Stop  !  You'll 
say  as  much  as  you  like  presently.  I  give  you  a  warning — 
the  man's  a  rascal.  I  didn't  play  spy  on  your  acts,  but  your 
looks.  I  can  read  a  face  like  yours,  and  it's  my  home,  my 
home ! — by  heaven,  it  is.  Now,  Rhoda,  you  know  a  little 
more  of  me.  Perhaps  I'm  more  of  a  man  than  you  thought. 
Marry  another,  if  you  will  ;  but  I'm  the  man  for  you,  and  I 
know  it,  and  you'll  go  wrong  if  you  don't  too.  Come  !  let 
your  father  sleep  well.     Give  me  your  hand." 

All  through  this  surprising  speech  of  Robert's,  which  was 
a  revelation  of  one  who  had  been  previously  dark  to  her,  she 
bad  steeled  her  spii-it  as  she  felt  herself  being  borne  upon 
unexpected  rapids,  and  she  marvelled  when  she  found  her 
hand  in  his. 

Dismayed,  as  if  caught  in  a  trap,  she  said: 

"  You  know  I've  no  love  for  you  at  all." 

"None — no  doubt,"  he  answered. 

The  tit  of  verbal  energy  was  expended,  and  be  had  be- 
come listless,  though  he  looked  frankly  at  her  and  assumed 
the  cheerfulness  Avhich  was  failing  within  him. 

"  I  wish  to  Tcniain  as  I  am,"  she  faltered,  surprised  again 
by  the  equally  astonishing  recurrence  of  humility,  and  more 
s-]»iritually  subdued  by  it.  "  I've  no  heart  for  a  change. 
Father  will  undoi'stand.     I  am  safe." 

JSiie  ended  with  a  cry  :  "  Oh  !  my  dear,  my  own  sister  !  I 


BETWEEN  EHODA  AST)  EOBEET.  105 

wisli  yon  were  safe.  Get  lier  here  to  me  and  I'll  do  what  I 
can,  if  you're  not  hard  on  her.  She's  so  beautiful,  she  can't  do 
wrong.  My  Dahlia's  in  some  trouble.  Mr.  Robert,  you  might 
really  be  her  fi'iend  ?" 

"  Drop  the  Mister,"  said  Robert. 

"Father  will  listen  to  yon,"  she  pleaded.  "Yon  won't 
leave  us  ?  Tell  him  you  know  I  am  safe.  But  I  haven't  a 
feeling  of  any  kind  while  my  sister's  away.  I  will  call  you 
Robert,  if  you  like."     She  reached  her  hand  forth. 

"  That's  right,"  he  said,  taking  it  with  a  show  of  hearti- 
ness :  "  that's  a  beginning,  I  suppose." 

She  shrank  a  little  in  his  sensitive  touch,  and  he  added  : 
"  Oh  never  fear.  I've  spoken  out,  and  don't  do  the  thing  too 
often.  Now  you  know  me,  that's  enough.  I  trust  you,  so 
trust  me.  I'll  talk  to  your  father.  I've  got  a  dad  of  my 
own,  who  isn't  so  easily  managed.  You  and  I,  Rhoda — 
we're  about  the  right   size  for  a  couple.  •    There — don't  be 

frightened  !     T  was  only  thinking I'll  let  go  your  hand 

in  a  minute.  If  DahKa'"s  to  be  found,  I'll  find  her.  Thank 
you  for  that  squeeze.  You'd  wake  a  dead  man  to  life,  if  you 
wanted  to.  To-morrow  I  set  about  the  business.  That's 
settled.  Now  yonr  hand's  loose.  Are  you  going  to  say 
good  night  ?  You  must  give  me  your  hand  again  for  that. 
What  a  rough  fellow  I  must  seem  to  you !  Different  fi-om 
the  man  you  thought  I  was  ?  I'm  just  what  you  choose  to 
make  me,  Rhoda ;  remember  that.  By  heaven  !  go  at  once, 
for  you're  an  armful " 

She  took  a  candle  and  started  for  the  door. 

"  Aha  !  you  can  look  fearful  as  a  doe.     Out!  make  haste  !" 

In  her  hurry  at  his  speeding  gestures,  the  candle  dropped ; 
she  was  going  to  pick  it  up,  but  as  he  approached,  she  stood 
away  frightened. 

"  One  kiss,  my  girl,"  he  said.  "  Don't  keep  me  jealous  as 
fire.  One  !  and  I'm  a  plighted  man.  One  ! — or  I  shaU  swear 
you  know  what  kisses  are.  Why  did  you  go  out  to  meet  that 
fellow  ?  Do  you  think  there's  no  danger  in  it  ?  Doesn't  he 
go  about  boasting  of  it  now,  and  saying — that  gii-l !  But 
kiss  me  and  I'll  forget  it ;  I'll  forgive  you.  Kiss  me  only 
once,  and  I  shall  be  certain  you  don't  care  for  him.  That's 
the  thought  maddens  me  outright.  I  can't  bear  it  now  I've 
seen  you  look  soft.  I'm  stronger  than  you,  mind."  He 
caught  her  by  the  waist. 


106  EnODA  FLEMINO. 

"  Yes,"  Rhoda  f^asped,  "  you  are.     You  are  only  a  brute." 

"  A  brute's  a  lucky  dog,  then,  for  I've  got  you  1" 

"AVill  you  touclimo?" 

*'  You're  in  my  power." 

*'  It's  a  miserable  thing,  Robert." 

"  Why  don't  you  struggle,  my  girl  ?  I  shall  kiss  you  in  a 
minute." 

"  i'ou're  never  my  friend  again." 

"  I'm  not  a  gentleman,  I  suppose  !" 

"  Never  !  after  this." 

"  It  isn't  done.  And  first  you're  like  a  white  rose,  and 
next  you're  like  a  red.     Will  you  submit  ?" 

"Oh!  shame!"   lihoda  uttered. 

"Because  I'm  not  a  gentleman  ?" 

"You  are  not." 

"  So,  if  I  could  make  you  a  lady—  eh  ?  the  lips  'd  bo  ready 
in  a  trice.     You  think  of  being  liiade  a  lady — a  lady  !" 

His  arm  relaxed  in  the  clutch  of  her  figure. 

She  got  herself  free,  and  said :  "  We  saw  Mr.  Blancove 
at  the  theatre  with  Dahlia." 

It  was  her  way  of  meeting  his  accusation  that  she  had 
cherished  an  ambitious  feminine  dream. 

Ho,  to  hide  a  confusion  that  had  come  upon  him,  was 
righting  the  fallen  candle. 

"  Now  I  know  you  can  be  relied  on ;  you  can  defend  your- 
self," he  said,  and  handed  it  to  her,  lighted.  "  You  keep  your 
kisses  for  this  or  that  young  gentleman.  Quite  right.  You 
really  can  defend  yourself.  That's  all  I  was  up  to.  So  let 
us  hear  that  you  forgive  me.  The  door's  open.  You  won't 
be  bothered  by  me  anymore  ;  and  don't  hate  me  overmuch." 

"  You  might  have  learned  to  trust  me  without  insulting  me, 
Robert,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  fancy  I'd  take  such  a  world  of  trouble  for  a  kiss 
of  your  lips,  sweet  as  they  are  ?" 

His  blusteitjus  beginning  ended  in  a  speculating  glance  at 
her  mouth. 

She  saw  it  would  be  wise  to  accept  him  in  his  present 
mood,  and  go ;  and  with  a  gentle  "  Good  night,"  that  might 
Bound  like  pardon,  she  passed  through  the  doorway. 


A  VISIT  TO  WEEXBY  HALL.  107 

CHAPTER  XV 

A  VISIT  TO   WREXBT   HALL. 

Kp:xt  day,  wliile  Squire  Blancove  was  STipermtencliTig'  tlie 
laying  down  of  lines  for  a  new  carriage  drive  in  his  pai-k,  as 
he  walked  slowly  np  the  green  slope  he  perceived  Farmer 
Fleming,  supported  by  a  tall  young  man  ;  and  when  the  pair 
were  nearer,  he  had  the  gratification  of  noting  likewise  that 
the  worthy  yeoman  was  very  much  bent,  as  with  an  acute 
attack  of  his  well-known  chronic  malady  of  a  want  of  money. 

The  squire  greatly  coveted  the  freehold  of  Queen  Anne's 
Farm.  He  had  made  offers  to  purchase  it  till  he  was  tired, 
and  had  gained  for  himself  the  credit  of  being  at  the  bottom 
of  numerous  hypothetical  cabals  to  injure  and  oust  the  farmer 
from  his  possession.  But  if  I^aboth  came  with  his  vineyard 
in  his  hand,  not  even  Wrexby's  rector  (his  quarrel  with  whom 
haunted  every  turn  in  his  life)  could  quote  Scripture  against 
him  for  taking  it  at  a  proper  valuation. 

The  squire  had  employed  his  leisure  time  during  service 
in  church  to  discover  a  text  that  might  be  used  against  him 
in  the  event  of  the  farmer's  reduction  to  a  state  of  distress, 
and  his,  the  squire's,  making  the  most  of  it.  On  the  contrary, 
according  to  his  heathenish  reading  of  some  of  the  patriarchal 
doings,  there  was  more  to  be  said  in  his  favour  than  not,  if 
he  increased  his  territorial  property  :  nor  could  he,  through- 
out the  Old  Testament,  hit  on  one  sentence  that  looked  like 
a  personal  foe  to  his  projects,  likely  to  fit  into  the  moath  of 
the  rector  of  Wrexby. 

"  Well,  farmer,"  he  said,  with  cheerful  familiarity,  "winter 
crops  looking  well  ?  There's  a  good  show  of  green  in  the 
fields  from  my  windows,  as  good  as  that  land  of  yours  will 
allow  in  heavy  seasons." 

To  this  the  farmer  replied,  "  I've  not  heart  or  will  to  be 
roundabout,  squire.  If  you'll  listen  to  me — here,  or  where 
you  give  command." 

"  Has  it  anything  to  do  with  pen  and  paper,  Fleming  ? 
In  that  case  you'd  better  be  in  my  study,"  said  the  sqaire. 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  have.  I  don't  know  that  it  have.** 
The  farmer  sought  Robert's  face. 


108  EHODA  FLEMINO. 

"  Best  wliere  there's  no  chance  of  inteiTuption,"  Rohert 
counselled,  and  lifted  his  hat  to  the  squire. 

"  Eh  ?  Well,  you  see  I'm  busy."  The  latter  affected  a 
particular  indill'erence  that,  in  such  cases,  when  well-acted 
(as  lords  of  money  can  do — squires  equally  with  usurers), 
may  be  valued  at  hundreds  of  pounds  in  the  pocket.  "  Can't 
you  put  it  olf  ?     Come  aj^ain  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow's  a  day  too  late,"  said  the  farmer,  gravely. 
"Whereto  replying,  "  Oh !  well,  come  along  in  then,"  the 
squire  led  the  way. 

"  You'i-e  two  to  one,  if  it's  a  transaction,"  he  said,  nodding 
to  Robert  to  close  the  library  door.  "  Take  seats.  Now  then, 
what  is  it  ?  And  if  1  make  a  face,  just  oblige  me  by  thinking 
nothing  about  it,  for  my  gout's  beginning  to  settle  in  the  leg 
again,  and  shoots  like  an  eleetiic  telegraph  from  purgatory." 

He  wheezed  and  lowercil  himself  into  his  arm-chair;  but 
the  farmer  and  Robert  remained  standing,  and  the  farmer 
spoke : — 

"  My  words  are  going  to  be  few,  squire.  I've  got  a  fact 
to  bring  to  your  knowledge,  and  a  question  to  ask." 

Surprise,  exaggerated  on  his  face  by  a  pain  he  had  anti- 
cipated, made  the  squire  glare  hideously. 

"  Confound  it,  that's  what  they  say  to  a  prisoner  in  the  box. 
Here's  a  murder  committed : — Are  you  the  guilty  person  ? 
Fact  and  question  !  Well,  out  with  'em,  both  together." 

"  A  father  ain't  responsible  for  the  sins  of  his  children," 
said  the  farmer. 

"  Well,  that's  a  fact,"  the  squire  emphasized.  "  I've  always 
maintained  it ;  but,  if  you  go  to  your  church,  farmer — small 
blame  to  you  if  you  don't ;  that  fellow  who  ])reat'hes  there — 
I  forget  his  name — stands  out  for  just  the  other  way.  You 
are  responsible,  he  swears.  Pay  your  son's  debts,  and  don't 
groan  over  it: — He  spent  the  money,  and  t/o?t're  the  chief 
debtor ;  that's  his  teaching.  Well :  go  on.  What's  your 
question  ?" 

"  A  father's  not  to  be  held  responsible  for  the  sins  of  his 
children,  squire.  !My  daughter's  left  me.  She's  away.  I 
saw  my  daughter  at  the  theatre  in  London.  She  saw  me, 
and  saw  her  sister  with  me.  She  disappeared.  It's  a  hai-d 
thing  for  a  man  to  be  saying  of  his  own  flesh  and  blood. 
She  disappeared.  She  went,  knowing  her  father's  arms  open 
to  her.     She  was  in  company  with  your  son." 


A  VISIT  TO  WREXBY  HALL.  109 

The  squire  was  thrumming  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  He 
looked  Tip  vagnely,  as  if  waiting  for  the  question  to  follow, 
but  meeting  the  farmer's  settled  eyes,  he  cried,  irritably, 
"Well,  what's  that  to  me  ?" 

"What's  that  to  you,  squire?" 

"  Are  you  going  to  make  me  out  responsible  for  my  son's 
conduct?  My  son's  a  rascal  —  everybody  knows  that.  I 
paid  his  debts  once,  and  I've  finished  with  him.  Don't  come 
to  me  about  the  fellow.  If  there's  a  greater  cui'se  than  the 
gout,  it's  a  son." 

"My  girl,"  said  the  farmer,  "she's  my  flesh  and  blood, 
and  I  must  find  her,  and  I"m  here  to  ask  you  to  make  your 
son  tell  me  where  she's  to  be  found.  Leave  me  to  deal  with 
that  young  man — leave  you  me !  but  I  want  my  girl." 

"  But  I  can't  give  her  to  you,"  roared  the  squire,  afilicted 
by  his  two  great  curses  at  once.  "  Why  do  you  come  to  me  ? 
I'm  not  responsible  for  the  doings  of  the  dog.  I'm  sorry  for 
you,  if  that's  what  you  want  to  know.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  my  son  took  her  away  from  your  house  ?" 

"  I  don't  do  so,  Mr.  Blancove.  I'm  seeking  for  my  daughter, 
and  I  see  her  in  company  with  your  son." 

"  Very  well,  very  well,"  said  the  squire  ;  "  that  shows  his 
habits ;  I  can't  say  more.  But  what  has  it  got  to  do  with 
me?" 

The  farmer  looked  helplessly  at  Robert. 

"No,  no,"  the  squire  sung  out,  "no  interlopers,  no  inter- 
preting here.  I  listen  to  you.  My  son — your  daughter.  I 
understand  that,  so  far.  It's  between  us  two.  Yoa've  got  a 
daughter  who's  gone  wrong  somehow :  I'm  sorry  to  hear  it. 
I've  got  a  son  who  never  went  right ;  and  it's  no  comfort  to 
me,  upon  my  word.  If  you  were  to  see  the  bills  and  the 
letters  I  receive !  but  I  don't  carry  my  grievances  to  my 
neighbours.  I  should  think,  Fleming,  you'd  do  best,  if  it's 
advice  you're  seeking,  to  keep  it  quiet.  Don't  make  a  noise 
about  it.  Neighbours'  gossip  I  find  pretty  well  the  worst 
thing  a  man  has  to  bear,  who's  unfortunate  enough  to  own 
children." 

The  farmer  bowed  his  head  with  that  bitter  humbleness 
which  characterized  his  reception  of  the  dealings  of  Provi- 
dence toward  him. 

" My  neighbours  '11  soon  be  none  at  all,"  he  said.  "Let 
'em  talk.     I'm  not  abusing  you,  Mr.  Blancote.     I'm  a  broken 


110  RHODA  FLEMING. 

man  :  bnt  T  want  my  poor  lost  pirl,  and,  by  God,  responsible 
for  your  son  or  not,  you  must  help  me  to  find  her.  She  may 
be  married,  as  she  says.  She  mayn't  be.  But  I  must  find  her." 
The  squire  Imstily  seized  a  scrap  of  paper  on  the  table 
and  wrote  on  it. 

"  Tliere  ;"  he  handed  the  pai)cr  to  the  farmer;  "  that's  my 
son's  atldress,  '  Boyne's  Bank,  City,  London.'  Go  to  him 
there,  and  you'll  find  him  perched  on  a  stool,  and  a  good 
drubbing  won't  hurt  him.  You've  my  hearty  permission,  I 
can  assure  you :  you  may  say  so.  '  Boyne's  Bank.'  Any- 
body will  show  you  the  place.  He's  a  rascally  clerk  in  the 
office,  and  precious  useful,  I  dare  swear.  Thrash  him,  if 
you  think  fit." 

"  Ay,"  said  the  farmer,  "  Boyne's  Bank.  I've  been  there 
already.  He's  absent  from  work,  on  a  visit  down  into  Harap- 
ghire,  one  of  the  young  geutlemen  informed  me  ;  Fairly  Park 
■was  the  name  of  the  place:  but  I  came  to  you,  Mr.  Blancove; 
for  you're  his  father." 

"  Well  now,  my  good  Fleming,  I  hope  you  think  I'm  pro- 
perly punished  for  that  fact."  The  squire  stood  up  with, 
horrid  contortions. 

Robert  stepped  in  advance  of  the  farmer. 
"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  he  said,  though  the  squire  met  his  voice 
■with  a  protligious  frown  ;  "  this  would  be  an  ugly  business 
to  talk  about,  as  you  observe.  It  would  hurt  Mr.  Fleming 
in  these  parts  of  the  country,  and  he  would  leave  it,  if  he 
thouglit  fit ;  but  you  can't  sepai-ate  your  name  from  your 
son's — begging  you  to  excuse  the  liberty  I  take  in  mentioning 
it— not  in  public :  and  your  son  has  the  misfortune  to  be  well 
known  in  one  or  two  places  where  he  was  quartered  when  in 

the  cavalry.     That  matter  of  the  jeweller " 

"  Hulloa,"  the  squire  exclaimed,  in  a  perturbation. 
"  Whv,  sir,  I  know  all  about  it,  because  I  was  a  trooper  in 
the  regiment  your  son,  Mr.  Algernon  Blancove,  quitted:  and 
his  name,  if  I  may  take  leave  to  remark  so,  won't  bear  print- 
ing. How  far  he's  guilty  before  Mr.  Fleming  we  can't  tell 
as  yet ;  but  if  Mr.  Fleming  holds  him  guilty  of  an  oilence, 
your  .son  '11  bear  the  consequences,  and  what's  done  will  be 
done  thoroughly.  Proper  counsel  will  be  taken,  as  needn't 
be  said.  ~S\r.  Fleming  applied  to  you  first,  ])artly  for  your 
Bake  as  well  as  his  own.  He  can  find  friends,  both  to  advise 
and  to  aid  him." 


A  VISIT  TO  WEEXBT  HALL.  Ill 

"Tou  mean,  sir,"  thundered  the  squire,  "  that  he  can  find 
enemies  of  mine,  like  that  infernal  fellow  who  goes  by  the 
title  of  Reverend,  down  below  there.  That  '11  do,  that  will 
do ;  there's  some  extortion  at  the  bottom  of  this.  You're 
putting  on  a  screw." 

"  We're  putting  on  a  screw,  sir,"  said  Robei-t,  coolly, 

'•  Kot  a  penny  will  you  get  by  it." 

Robert  flushed  with  heat  of  blood. 

"  Tou  don't  wish  you  were  a  young  man  half  so  much  as 
I  do  just  now,"  he  remarked,  and  immediately  they  were  in 
collision,  for  the  squire  made  a  rush  to  the  bell-rope,  and 
Robert  stopped  him.  "We're  going,"  he  said;  "we  don't 
"want  man-seryants  to  show  us  the  way  out.  Now  mark  me, 
Mr.  Blancove,  you've  insulted  an  old  man  in  his  misery :  you 
shall  suifer  for  it,  and  so  shall  your  son,  whom  I  know  to  be 
a  rascal  worthy  of  transportation.  You  think  Mr.  Fleming 
came  to  you  for  money.  Look  at  this  old  man,  whose  only 
fault  is  that  he's  too  full  of  kindness  ;  he  came  to  you  just 
for  help  to  find  his  daughter,  with  whom  your  rascal  of  a 
son  was  last  seen,  and  you  swear  he's  come  to  rob  you  of 
money.  Don't  you  know  yotirself  a  fattened  cur,  squire 
though  you  be,  and  called  gentleman  ?  England's  a  good 
place,  but  you  make  England  a  hell  to  men  of  spirit.  Sit  in 
your  chair,  and  don't  ever  you,  or  any  of  you  cross  my  path  ; 
and  speak  a  word  to  your  servants  before  we're  out  of  the 
house,  and  I  stand  in  the  hall  and  give  'em  your  son's  his- 
tory, and  make  Wrexby  stink  in  your  nostril,  till  you're  glad 
enough  to  fly  out  of  it.  Now,  ]\Ir.  Fleming,  there's  no  more 
to  be  done  here  ;  the  game  lies  elsewhere." 

Robert  took  the  farmer  by  the  arm,  and  was  marching  out 
of  the  enemy's  territory  in  good  order,  when  the  squire,  who 
had  presented  many  changing  aspects  of  astonishment  and 
rage,  aiTested  them  with  a  call.  He  began  to  say  that  he 
spoke  to  Mr.  Fleming,  and  not  to  the  young  rufiian  of  a 
bully  whom  the  farmer  had  brought  there  :  and  then  asked 
in  a  very  reasonable  manner  what  he  could  do — what  mea- 
sures he  could  adopt  to  aid  the  farmer  in  finding  his  child. 
Robert  hung  modestly  in  the  background  while  the  farmer 
laboured  on  with  a  few  sentences  to  explain  the  case,  and 
finally  the  squire  said  that,  his  foot  permitting  (it  was  an 
almost  pathetic  reference  to  the  weakness  of  flesh),  he  would 


112  EnODA  FLEMING. 

go  down  to  Fairly  on  the  day  following  and  have  a  pcrponal 
interview  with  his  son,  and  set  things  riyht,  as  far  as  it  lay 
in  liis  pow(>r,  tluiiigh  ho  was  by  no  means  answerable  for  a 
young  mail's  follies. 

He  was  a  little  frightened  by  the  farmer's  having  said 
that  Dahlia,  according  to  her  own  declaration  Avas  married, 
and  therofoi'e  himself  the  more  anxious  to  see  !Mr.  Algernon, 
and  hear  the  truth  from  his  estimable  oifspring,  whom  he 
again  stigmatized  as  a  curse  terrible  to  him  as  his  gouty 
foot,  but  nevertheless  just  as  little  to  be  left  to  his  own 
devices.  The  farmer  bowed  to  these  observations  ;  as  also 
when  the  squire  counselled  him,  for  his  own  sake,  not  to 
talk  of  his  misfortune  all  over  the  parish. 

"  I'm  not  a  likely  man  for  that,  scpiire  ;  but  there's  no 
tellinGT  where  gossips  get  their  crumbs.  It's  about.  It's 
about." 

"  About  my  son  ?"  cried  the  squire. 

"My  daughter!" 

"  Oh,  well,  good  day,"  the  squire  resumed  more  cheer- 
fully. "  I'll  go  down  to  Fairly,  and  you  cant  ask  more  than 
that." 

When  the  farmer  was  oiit  of  the  house  and  out  of  hearing, 
he  rebuked  llobert  for  the  inconsiderate  rashness  of  his 
behaviour,  and  pointed  out  how  he,  the  farmer,  by  being 
patient  and  peaceful,  had  attained  to  the  object  of  his  visit. 
Robert  laughed  without  defending  himself. 

"  I  shouldn't  ha'  known  ye,"  the  farmer  repeated  fre- 
quently ;  "  I  shouldn't  ha'  known  ye,  Robert." 

"  No,  I'm  a  triiie  changed,  may  be,"  Robert  a^ri'eed.  "  I'm 
going  to  claim  a  holiday  of  you.  I've  told  Rhoda  that  if 
Dahlia's  to  be  found,  I'll  find  her,  and  I  can't  do  it  by  stick- 
ing here.  Give  me  three  weeks.  The  land's  asleep.  Old 
Gammon  can  hardly  turn  a  furrow  the  Avi-ong  way.  Tliere's 
nothing  to  do,  which  is  his  busiest  occupation,  when  he's  not 
interrupted  at  it." 

"  Alas'  Gammon's  a  rai*e  old  man,"  said  the  farmer, 
emphatically. 

"  So  I  say.  Else,  how  would  you  see  so  many  farms 
flourishing !" 

"Come,  Robert:  you  hit  th'  old  man  hard:  you  should 
leai'u  to  forgive." 


AT  FAFRLY  PARK".  113 

"  So  I  do,  and  a  telling  blow's  a  man's  best  road  to 
charity.  I'd  forgive  the  squire  and  many  another,  if  I  had 
them  within  two  feet  of  my  fist." 

"  Do  you  forgive  my  girl  Rhoda  for  putting  of  you  off  ?" 

Robert  screwed  in  his  cheek. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  do,"  he  said.  "  Only  it  makes  me  feel 
thirsty,  that's  all." 

The  farmer  remembered  this  when  they  had  entered  the 
farm. 

"Our  beer's  so  poor,  Robert,"  he  made  apology;  "but 
Rhoda  shall  get  you  some  for  you  to  try,  if  you  like.  Rhoda, 
Robert's  solemn  thirsty." 

"  Shall  I  ?"  said  Rhoda,  and  she  stood  awaiting  his  bid- 
ding. 

"  I'm  not  a  thirsty  subject,"  replied  Robert.  "  You  know 
I've  avoided  drink  of  any  kind  since  I  set  foot  on  this  floor. 
But  when  I  drink,"  he  pitched  his  voice  to  a  hard,  sparkling 
heartiness,  "  I  drink  a  lot,  and  the  stuff  must  be  strong. 
I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you.  Miss  Rhoda,  for  what  you're 
so  kind  as  to  offer  to  satisfy  my  thirst,  and  yoa  can't  give 
better,  and  don't  suppose  that  I'm  complaining ;  but  your 
father's  right,  it  is  rather  weak,  and  wouldn't  break  the 
tooth  of  my  thirst  if  I  drank  at  it  till  Gammon  left  off 
thinking  about  his  dinner." 

With  that  he  announced  his  approaching  departure. 

The  farmer  dropped  into  his  fireside  chair,  dumb  and 
spiritless.  A  shadow  was  over  the  house,  and  the  inha- 
bitants moved  about  their  domestic  occupations  silent  as 
things  that  feel  the  thunder-cloud.  Before  sunset  Robert 
was  gone  on  his  long  walk  to  the  station,  and  Rhoda  felt  a 
•woman's  great  envy  of  the  liberty  of  a  man,  who  has  not,  if 
it  pleases  him  not,  to  sit  and  eat  grief  among  familiar  imao-es 
in  a  home  that  f  ui-nishes  its  altai'-flame. 


114  EQODA  FLEJIINO. 

CHAPTER  XVL 

AT  FAIRLY  rAKK. 

Fairly,  Lord  Ell  hire's  seat  in  Hampsliire,  lay  over  the 
Waiboach  river;  a  white  mansion  among  f^reat  oaks,  in  view 
of  the  summer  sails  and  winter  masts  of  the  yachting 
squadron.  The  house  was  ruled,  during  the  congregation  of 
the  Christmas  guests,  by  charming  Mrs.  Lovell,  who  relieved 
the  invalid  Lady  of  the  house  of  the  many  serious  cares 
attending  the  reception  of  visitors,  and  did  it  all  with  ease. 
Under  her  sovereignty  the  place  was  delightful,  and  if  it 
•was  by  repute  pleasantor  to  young  men  than  to  any  other 
class,  it  will  be  admitted  that  she  sat  is  Hud  those  who  are 
loudest  in  giving  tongue  to  praise. 

Edward  and  Algernon  journeyed  down  to  Fairly  together, 
after  the  confidence  which  the  astute  young  lawyer  had  been 
compelled  to  repose  in  his  cousin.  Sir  William  Blancove 
■was  to  be  at  Fairly,  and  it  was  at  his  father's  pointed 
request  that  Edward  had  accepted  Mrs.  Lovell's  invita- 
tion. Half  in  doubt  as  to  the  lady's  disposition  toward 
him,  Edward  eased  his  heart  with  sneers  at  the  soft, 
sanguinary  graciousness  they  were  to  expect,  and  racked 
mythology  for  spiteful  comparisons ;  while  Algernon  vehe- 
mently defended  her  with  a  battering  fire  of  British 
adjectives  in  superlative,  lie  as  much  as  hinted,  under 
instigation,  that  he  was  entitled  to  defend  her;  and  his  claim 
being  by-and-by  yawningly  allowed  by  Edward,  and  presum- 
ing that  he  now  had  Edward  in  his  power  and  need  not  fear 
him,  he  exhibited  his  weakness  in  the  guise  of  a  costly  gem, 
that  he  intended  to  present  to  Mrs.  Lovell — an  opal  set  in 
a  cross  pendant  from  a  necklace ;  a  really  fine  opal,  coquet- 
ting with  the  lights  of  every  gem  that  is  known :  it  shot 
succinct  red  Hashes,  and  gi-een,and  yellow  ;  the  emerald,  the 
amethyst,  the  topaz  lived  in  it,  and  a  remote  ruby ;  it  was 
veined  with  lightning  hues,  and  at  times  it  slept  in  a  milky- 
cloud,  innocent  of  fire,  quite  maidenlike. 

"  That  will  suit  her,"  was  Edward's  remark. 

"  I  didn't  want  to  get  anything  common,"  said  Algernon, 
making  the  gem  play  before  liis  eyes. 

"A  pretty  stone,"  said  Edward. 


AT  PAIKLY  PARK.  Il5 

**  Do  you  tliink  so  ?  " 

"Very  pretty  iTideed.'* 

*'  Harlequin  pattern." 

"  To  be  presented  to  Columbine  I" 

"  The  Harlequin  pattern  is  of  the  best  sort,  yon  tnow. 
Perhaps  you  like  the  watery  ones  best  P  Tliis  is  fresh  from 
Russia.  There's  a  set  I've  my  eye  on.  I  shall  complete  it 
in  time.  I  want  Peggy  Lovell  to  wear  the  jolliest  opals  in 
the  world.     It's  rather  nice,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Its  a  splendid  opal,"  said  Edward. 

"  She  likes  opals,"  said  Algernon. 

"  She'll  take  your  meaning  at  once,"  said  Edward. 

"  How  ?  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  know  what  my  meaning  is, 
Ned." 

"Don't  you  know  the  signification  of  your  gift  ?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

"  Oh  !  you'll  be  Oriental  when  you  present  it." 

"The  deuce  I  shall  !" 

"  It  means,  'You're  the  prettiest  widow  in  the  world."* 

"  So  she  is.     I'll  be  right  there,  old  boy." 

"  And,  '  You're  a  rank,  right-down  widow,  and  no  mistake 
you're  everything  to  everybody;  not  half  so  innocent  as 
you  look  :  you're  green  as  jealousy,  red  as  murder,  yellow 
as  jaundice,  and  put  on  the  whiteness  of  a  virgin  when 
you  ought  to  be  blushing  like  a  penitent.'  In  short,  '  You 
have  no  heart  of  your  own,  and  you  pretend  to  possess  half 
a  dozen  :  you're  devoid  of  one  steady  beam,  and  play  tricks 
with  every  scale  of  colour  :  you're  an  arrant  widow,  and 
that's  what  you  are.'     An  eloquent  gift,  Algy." 

"  Gad,  if  it  means  all  that,  it'll  be  rather  creditable  to 
me,"  said  Algernon.     "  Do  opals  mean  widows  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  was  the  answer. 

"Well,  she  is  a  widow,  and  T  suppose  she's  going  to 
remain  one,  for  she's  had  lots  of  offers.  If  I  marry,  a  girl  I 
shall  never  like  her  half  as  much  as  Peggy  Lovell,  She's 
clone  me  up  for  every  other  woman  living.  She  never  ts 
me  feel  a  fool  with  her  ;  and  she  has  a  way,  by  Jove,  of 
looking  at  me,  and  letting  me  know  she's  up  to  my  thoughts 
and  isn't  angry.  What's  the  use  of  my  thinking  of  her 
at  all  ?  She  d  never  go  to  the  Colonies,  and  live  in  a  loge 
hut  and  make  cheeses,  while  I  tore  about  on  horseback: 
gathering  cattle." 

i2 


116  RHODA  ''LEMINQ. 

"  1  don't  think  she  would,"  observed  Edward,  emphati. 
cally  ;  "  1  don't  think  she  would." 

"  And  I  shall  never  have  money.  Confound  stingy 
parents !  It's  a  question  whether  I  shall  get  Wrcxby : 
there's  no  entail.  I'm  heir  to  the  governor's  temper  and  his 
gout,  I  dare  say.  He'll  do  as  he  likes  with  the  estate.  I 
call  it  beastly  unfair." 

Edwaid  asked  how  much  the  opal  had  cost. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  Algernon  ;  "  that  is,  I  never  pay  for 
jewellery." 

Edward  was  curious  to  know  how  he  managed  to 
obtain  it. 

"  Why,  you  see,"  Algernon  explained,  "  they,  the 
jewellers — I've  got  two  or  three  in  hand — the  fellows  are 
acquainted  with  my  position,  and  they  speculate  on  my 
expectations.  There  is  no  harm  in  that  if  they  like  it.  1 
look  at  their  trinkets,  and  say,  '  I've  no  money ;'  and  they 
Bay,  '  Never  mind  ;'  and  I  don't  mind  much.  The  under- 
standing is,  that  I  pay  them  when  I  inherit." 

"  In  gout  and  bad  temper  ?" 

"  Gad,  if  I  inherit  nothing  else,  they'll  have  lots  of  that 
for  indemnification.  It's  a  good  system,  Ned ;  it  enables  a 
young  fellow  like  me  to  get  through  the  best  years  of  his 
life — which  I  take  to  be  his  youth — without  that  squalid 
poverty  bothering  him.  You  can  make  presents,  and  wear  a 
pin  or  a  ring,  if  it  takes  your  eye.  You  look  well,  and  you 
make  yourself  agreeable  ;  and  I  see  nothing  to  complain  of 
in  that." 

"  The  jewellei'S,  then,  have  established  an  institution  to 
correct  one  of  the  errors  of  Providrnce." 

"  Oh  !  put  it  in  your  long-winded  way,  if  you  like,"  said 
Algernon  ;  "  all  I  know  is,  that  I  should  often  have  wanted 
a  five  pound  note,  if— that  is  if  I  hadn't  happened  to  be 
dressed  like  a  gentleman.  With  your  prospects,  Ned,  I 
should  propose  to  charming  Peggy  to-morrow  morning 
early.  We  mustn't  let  her  go  out  of  the  family.  If  I  can't 
have  her,  I'd  rather  you  would." 

"  You  forget  the  incumbrances  on  one  side,"  said  Edward, 
his  face  darkening. 

"Oh!  that's  all  to  be  managed,"  Algernon  rallied  him. 
"  Why,  Ned,  you'll  have  twenty-thousand  a-year,_if  you  have 
a  penny ;  and  you'll  go  into  Parliament,  and  give  dinners, 


AT  FAIRLY  PAEK.  117 

and  a  woman  like  Peggj  Lovell  'd  intrigue  for  you  like  the 
deuce." 

"  A  great  deal  too  like,"  Edward  muttered. 

"  As  for  that  pretty  girl,"  continued  Algernon ;  but 
Edward  peremptorily  slopped  all  speech  rcga-ding  Dahlia. 
His  desire  was,  while  he  made  holiday,  to  shut  the  past 
behind  a  brazen  gate  ;  which  being  communicated  sympa- 
thetically to  his  cousin,  the  latter  chimed  to  it  in  boisterous 
shouts  of  anticipated  careless  jollity  at  Fairly  Park,  crying 
out  how  they  would  hunt  and  snap  fingers  at  Jews,  and  all 
mortal  sorrows,  and  have  a  fortnight,  or  three  weeks, 
perhaps  a  full  month,  of  the  finest  life  possible  to  man,  with 
good  horses,  good  dinners,  good  wines,  good  society,  at  com- 
mand, and  a  queen  of  a  woman  to  rule  and  order  everything. 
Edward  affected  a  disdainful  smile  at  the  prospect ;  but  was 
in  reality  the  weaker  of  the  two  in  his  thirst  for  it. 

They  arrived  at  Fairly  in  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  in 
the  drawing-room  Mrs.  Lovell  sat  to  receive  them.  She 
looked  up  to  Edward's  face  an  imperceptible  half-second 
longer  than  the  ordinary  form  of  welcome  accords — one  of 
the  looks  which  are  nothing  at  all  when  there  is  no  spiritual 
apprehension  between  young  people,  and  are  so  much  when 
there  is.  To  Algernon,  who  was  gazing  opals  on  her,  she 
simply  gave  her  fingers.  At  her  right  hand,  was  Sir  John 
Capes,  her  antique  devotee  ;  a  pure  milky-white  old  gentle- 
man, with  sparkling  fingers,  who  played  Apollo  to  his 
Daphne,  and  was  out  of  breath.  Lord  Suckling,  a  boy  with 
a  boisterous  constitution,  and  a  guardsman,  had  his  place 
near  her  left  hand,  as  if  ready  to  seize  it  at  the  first  whisper 
of  encouragement  or  opportunity.  A  very  little  lady  of 
seventeen.  Miss  Adeline  Gosling,  trembling  with  shyness 
under  a  cover  of  demureness,  fell  to  Edward's  lot  to  conduct 
down  to  dinner,  where  he  neglected  her  disgracefully.  His 
father.  Sir  William,  was  present  at  the  table,  and  Lord 
Elliug,  with  whom  he  was  in  repute  as  a  talker  and  a  wit. 
Quickened  with  his  host's  renowned  good  wine  (and  the  bare 
renown  of  a  wine  is  inspiriting),  Edward  pressed  to  be 
brilliant.  He  had  an  epigrammatic  turn,  and  though  his 
mind  was  prosaic  when  it  ran  alone,  he  could  appear  in- 
ventive and  fanciful  with  the  rub  of  other  minds.  Now,  at 
a  table  where  good  talking  is  cared  for,  the  triumphs  of  the 
excelling  tongue  are  not  for  a  moment  to  be  despised,  even 


118  EnODA  FLEMING. 

by  tlie  hncre  appetite  of  the  monster  Vanity,  For  a  year, 
Edward  had  abjured  this  feast.  Before  the  birds  apyjeared 
and  the  champiiLfiie  had  ceased  to  make  its  circle,  he  felt 
that  he  was  no\»  at  home  again,  and  that  the  term  of  his 
wandering  away  from  society  was  one  of  folly.  He  felt  the 
■joy  and  vigour  of  a  creature  returned  to  his  element.  Why 
had  he  ever  quitted  it  ?  Already  he  looked  back  upon 
Dahlia  from  a  prodigious  distance.  He  knew  that  there 
was  something  to  be  smoothed  over ;  something  written  in 
the  book  of  facts  which  had  to  be  smeared  out,  and  he 
seemed  to  do  it,  w^hile  he  drank  the  babbling  Avine  and 
heard  himself  talk.  Not  one  man  at  that  table,  as  he  i-e- 
flected,  would  consider  tho  bond  which  held  him  in  any 
serious  degree  binding.  A  lady  is  one  thing,  and  a  girl  of 
the  class  Dahlia  had  sprung  from  altogether  another.  He 
could  not  help  imagining  the  sort  of  appearance  she  would 
make  there ;  and  the  thought  even  was  a  momentary  clog 
upon  his  tongue.  IIow  he  used  to  despise  these  people  ! 
Especially  he  had  despised  the  young  men  as  brainless 
cowai'ds  in  regard  to  their  views  of  women  and  conduct 
toward  them.  All  that  was  changed.  He  fancied  now  that 
they,  on  the  contrary,  would  despise  him,  if  only  they  could 
be  aware  of  the  lingering  sense  he  entertained  of  liis  being  in 
bondage  under  a  sacred  obligation  to  a  farmer's  daughter. 

But  he  had  one  thing  to  discover,  and  that  was,  why  Sir 
William  had  made  it  a  peculiar  request  that  he  should  come 
to  meet  him  here.  Could  the  desire  possibly  be  to  reconcile 
him  with  Mrs.  Lovell  ?  His  common  sense  rejected  the  idea 
at  once.  Sir  William  boasted  of  her  Avit  and  tact,  and  ad- 
mired her  beauty,  but  Edward  rcmombeied  his  having 
responded  tacitly  to  his  estimate  of  her  character,  and  Sir 
William  was  not  the  man  to  coui't  the  alliance  of  his  son 
with  a  woman  like  !Mrs.  Lovell.  He  perceived  that  his 
father  and  the  fair  widow  frequently  took  counsel  together. 
Edward  laughed  at  the  notion  that  the  grave  senior  had 
himself  become  fascinated,  but  Avithout  utterly  scouting  it, 
until  he  found  that  the  little  lady  whom  he  luid  led  to  dinner 
the  first  day,  was  an  heiress  ;  and  from  that,  and  other  indi- 
cations, he  exactly  divined  the  nature  of  his  father's  provi- 
dent Avishes.  But  this  revelation  rendered  Mrs.  Lovell's 
behaviour  yet  more  e.xtraoi-dinary.  Could  it  bo  credited 
that  she  was  abetting  Sir  William's  schemes  Avith  all  her 


AT  FAIKLT  PARK.  119 

woman's  craft?  "Has  she,"  thought  Edward,  "become  so 
indifferent  to  me  as  to  care  for  my  welfare  ?"  He  deter- 
mined to  pnt  her  to  the  test.  He  made  love  to  Adeline 
Gosling.  N'othing  that  he  did  disturbed  the  impenetrable 
complacency  of  Mrs.  Lovell.  She  threw  them  together  as 
she  shuffled  the  guests.  She  really  seemed  to  him  quite  in- 
different enough  to  care  for  his  welfare.  It  was  a  point  in 
the  mysterious  ways  of  women,  or  of  widows,  that  Edward's 
experience  had  not  yet  come  across.  All  the  parties  imme- 
diately concerned  were  apparently  so  desperately  acquiescing 
in  his  suit,  that  he  soon  grew  uneasy.  Mrs.  Lovell  not  only 
shuffled  him  into  places  with  the  raw  heiress,  but  with  the 
child's  mother  ;  of  whom  he  spoke  to  Algernon  as  of  one  too 
strongly  breathing  of  matrimony  to  appease  the  cravings  of 
an  eclectic  mind. 

"  Make  the  path  clear  for  me,  then,"  said  Algernon,  "  if 
you  don't  like  the  girl.  Pitch  her  tales  about  me.  Say, 
I've  got  a  lot  in  me,  though  I  don't  let  it  out.  The  game's 
up  between  you  and  Peggy  Lovell,  that's  clear.  She  don't 
forgive  you,  my  boy." 

"  Ass  !"  muttered  Edward,  seeing  by  the  light  of  his  per- 
ception,  that  he  was  too  thoroughly  foi-given. 

A  principal  charm  of  the  life  at  Fairly  to  him  was  that 
there  was  no  one  complaining.  JS'o  one  looked  reproach  at 
him.  If  a  lady  was  pale  and  reserved,  she  did  not  seem  to 
accuse  him,  and  to  requii^e  coaxing.  All  faces  here  were  as 
light  as  the  flying  moment,  and  did  not  carry  the  shadowy 
weariness  of  years,  like  that  burdensome  fair  face  in  the 
London  lodging-house,  to  which  the  Fates  had  terribly 
attached  themselves.  So,  he  was  gay.  He  closed,  as  it 
wei'e,  a  black  volume,  and  opened  a  new  and  a  bright  one. 
Young  men  easily  fancy  that  they  may  do  this,  and  that 
when  the  black  volume  is  shut  the  tide  is  stopped.  Saying, 
"  I  was  a  fool,"  they  believe  they  have  put  an  end  to  the 
foolishness.  What  father  teaches  them  that  a  human  act 
once  set  in  motion  flows  on  for  ever  to  the  great  account  ? 
Our  deathlessness  is  in  what  we  do,  not  in  what  we  are. 
Comfortable  Youth  thinks  otherwise. 

The  days  at  a  well-ordered  country-house,  where  a  divining 
lady  rules,  speed  to  the  measure  of  a  waltz,  in  harmonious 
circles,  dropping  like  crystals  into  the  gulfs  of  Time,  and 
appearing  to  write  nothing  in  his  book.     Not  a  single  hinge 


120  RnODA  FLKMINO. 

ot  existence  is  heard  to  creak.  Tliere  is  no  after-dinner  "bill. 
You  are  waited  on,  without  beinpf  elbowed  by  the  humanity 
of  your  attendants.  It  is  a  civilized  Arcadia.  Only,  do  not 
desire,  that  you  may  not  envy.  Accept  humbly  what  rights 
of  citizenship  are  accorded  to  you  upon  entering.  Discard 
the  passions  when  you  cross  the  thresludd.  To  breathe  and 
to  swallow  merely,  ai'e  tlie  duties  which  should  prescribe 
your  conduct;  or,  such  is  the  swollen  condition  of  the  auimal 
in  this  enchanted  region,  that  the  spirit  of  man  becomes 
dauLierously  beset. 

Edward  breathed  and  swallowed,  and  never  went  beyond 
the  prescription,  save  by  talking.  No  other  junior  could 
enter  the  library,  without  encountering  the  scorn  of  his 
elders  ;  so  he  enjoyed  the  pi-ivilege  of  hearing  all  the  scandal, 
and  his  natural  cynicism  was  plentifully  fed.  It  was  more 
of  a  school  to  him  than  he  knew. 

These  veterans,  in  their  arm-chairs,  stripped  the  bloom 
from  life,  and  showed  it  to  be  bare  bones.  They  took  their 
■wisdom  for  an  experience  of  the  past:  they  were  but  giving 
their  sensaKons  in  the  present.  Not  to  perceive  this,  is 
Youth's  eiTor  when  it  hears  old  gentlemen  talking  at  their 
ease. 

On  the  third  morning  of  their  stay  at  Fairly,  Algernon 
came  into  Edwaid's  rooua  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  There  !  read  that  !"  he  said.  "  It  isn't  ill-luck  ;  it's 
infernal  persecution  !  What,  on  earth  ! — why,  I  took  a  close 
cab  to  the  station.  You  saw  me  get  out  of  it.  I'll  swear  no 
creditor  of  mine  knew  I  was  leaving  London.  My  belief  is 
that  the  fellows  who  give  credit  have  spies  about  at  every 
railway  terminus  in  the  kingdom.  They  won't  give  me 
thi-ee  days'  peace.  It's  enough  to  disgust  any  man  with 
civilized  life  ;  on  my  soul,  it  is  !" 

Edward  glanced  at  the  superscription  of  the  letter.  "  Not 
posted,"  he  remarked. 

"  No ;  delivered  by  some  confounded  bailiff,  who's  been 
bounding  me." 

"Bailiffs  don't  generally  deal  in  warnings." 

"  Will  you  read  it!"  Algernon  shouted. 

The  letter  ran  thus  : 

"Mr.  Alckrnon  Blancovk; 

•'  The  writer  of  this  intends  taking  the  first  opportunity  of 


A  YEOMAN  OF  THE  OLD  BKEED.  121 

meeting  you,  and  gives  you  warning,  you  will  have  to  answer 
his  question  with  a  Yes  or  a  No;  and  speak  from  your  con- 
science. The  respectfulness  of  his  behaviour  to  you  as  a 
gentleman  will  depend  upon  that." 

Algernon  followed  his  cousin's  eye  down  to  the  last  letter 
in  the  page. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?"  he  asked  eagerly, 

Edward's  broad  thin-lined  brows  were  drawn  down  in 
gloom.  Mastering  some  black  meditation  in  his  brain,  he 
answered  Algernon's  yells  for  an  opinion : — 

"  1  think — well,  1  think  bailiifs  have  improved  in  their 
manners,  and  show  you  they  are  determined  to  belong  to  the 
social  march  in  an  age  of  universal  progress.  Nothing  can 
be  more  comforting." 

"  But,  suppose  this  fellow  comes  across  me  ?" 

"  Don't  know  him." 

*'  Suppose  he  insists  on  knowing  me  ?" 

"  Don't  know  youi\self." 

"  Yes  ;  but  hang  it !  if  he  catches  hold  of  mo  ?** 

"  Shake  him  off." 

"  Suppose  he  won't  let  go  ?" 

*'  Cut  him  with  your  horsewhip." 

"  You  think  it's  about  a  debt,  then  ?" 

"  Intimidation,  evidently." 

"  1  shall  announce  to  him  that  the  great  Edward  BlancoYO 
is  not  to  be  intimidated.  "  You'll  let  me  borrow  your  name, 
old  Ned.  I've  stood  by  you  in  my  time.  As  for  leaving 
Fairly,  I  tell  you  1  can't.  It's  too  delightful  to  be  near 
Peggy  Lovell." 

Edward  smiled  with  a  peculiar  friendliness,  and  Algernon 
■went  off,  very  well  contented  with  his  cousin. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  YEOMAN  OP  THE  OLD  BREED. 


"Within  a  mile  of  Fairly  Park  lay  the  farm  of  another 
yeoman ;  but  he  was  of  another  character.     The  Hampshire- 


122  RHODA  FLEMING. 

man  was  a  farmor  of  renown  in  his  profession ;  fifth  of  a 
family  that  had  cultivated  a  small  domain  of  ono  liundred 
and  seventy  acres  with  sterling  profit,  and  in  a  style  to  make 
Sutton  the  model  of  a  perfect  farm  throuti;hout  the  countjy. 
Royal  eyes  had  inspected  his  pigs  approvingly  ;  Royal  wits 
had  taken  hints  from  Jonathan  Eccles  in  matters  agricul- 
tural ;  and  it  was  his  comforting  joke  that  he  had  taught 
his  Prince  good  breeding.  In  return  for  the  service,  his 
Prince  had  transformed  a  lusty  Radical  into  a  devoted 
Royalist.  Framed  on  the  walls  of  his  parloui's  were  letters 
from  his  Prince,  thanking  him  for  specimen  seeds  and  worthy 
counsel :  veritable  autograph  lettei-s  of  the  highest  value. 
The  Prince  had  steamed  up  the  salt  river,  upon  which  the 
Sutton  harvests  were  mirrored,  and  landed  on  a  spot  marked 
in  honour  of  the  event  by  a  broad  grey  stone ;  and  from  that 
day  Jonathan  Eccles  stood  on  a  pinnacle  of  pride,  enabling 
him  to  see  horizons  of  despondency  hitherto  unknown  to 
him.  For  he  had  a  son,  and  the  son  was  a  riotous  devil,  a 
most  wild  young  fellow,  who  had  no  taste  for  a  farmer's 
life,  and  openly  declared  his  determination  not  to  perpetuate 
the  Sutton  farm  in  the  hands  of  the  Eccles's,  by  running  off 
one  day  and  entering  the  I'anks  of  the  British  army. 

Those  framed  letters  became  melancholy  objects  for  con- 
templation, Avhen  Jonathan  thought  that  no  posterity  of  his 
would  point  them  out  gloryingly  in  emulation.  Man's  aim 
is  to  culminate;  but  it  is  the  saddest  thing  in  the  world  to 
feel  that  we  have  accomplished  it.  Mr.  Eccles  shrugged 
with  all  the  philosophy  he  could  summon,  and  transferred 
his  private  disappointment  to  his  country,  whose  agricul- 
tural day  was,  he  said,  doomed.  "  We  shall  be  beaten  by 
those  Yankees."  He  gave  Old  England  twenty  years  of 
continued  pre-eminence  (due  to  the  impetus  of  the  present 
generation  of  Englishmen),  and  then,  said  he,  the  Yankees 
will  flood  the  market.  No  more  green  pa,stures  in  Great 
Britain  ;  no  pretty  clean,  footed  animals;  no  yellow  harvests; 
but  huge  cliimney  pots  everywhere;  black  earth  under  black 
vapour,  and  smoke-begrimed  faces.  In  twenty  years'  time, 
sooty  England  was  to  be  a  gigantic  manufactory,  until  tho 
Yankees  beat  us  out  of  that  field  as  well  ;  l)cyond  which 
Jonathan  Eccles  did  not  care  to  spread  any  distinct  border 
of  piT)|)hecy  ;  merely  thanking  the  Lord  that  he  should  then 
bo  under  grass.     The  decay  of  our  glory  was  to  be  edged 


A  YEOFAN  OF  THE  OLD  EBEED.  123 


t- 


With  blood ;  Jonathan  admitted  that  there  would  be  stuff  iu 
the  fallen  race  to  deliver  a  sturdy  fight  beL'ore  they  went  to 
their  doom. 

For  this  prodigious  curse,  England  bad  to  thank  young 
Robert,  the  ei^ratic  son  of  Jonathan. 

It  was  now  two  years  since  Robert  had  inherited  a  small 
legacy  of  money  from  an  aunt,  and  spent  it  in  waste,  as  the 
farmer  bitterly  supposed.  He  was  looking  at  some  immense 
seed-melons  in  his  garden,  lying  about  in  morning  sunshine 
— a  new  feed  for  sheep,  of  bis  own  invention, — when  the  call 
of  the  wanderer  saluted  kis  ears,  and  be  beheld  his  son 
Robert  at  the  gate. 

"  Here  I  am,  sir,"  Robert  sang  out  from  the  exterior. 

"  Stay  there,  then,"  was  bis  welcome. 

They  were  alike  in  their  build  and  in  their  manner  of 
speech.  The  accost  and  the  reply  sounded  like  reports  from 
the  same  pistol.  The  old  man  was  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
and  muscular — a  grey  edition  of  the  son,  upon  whose  dis- 
orderly attire  he  cast  a  glance,  while  speaking,  with  settled 
disgust.  Robert's  necktie  streamed  loose;  his  hair  was  un- 
combed ;  a  handerchief  dangled  from  his  pocket.  He  had 
the  look  of  the  prodigal,  returned  with  impudence  for  bis 
portion  instead  of  repentance. 

"  1  can't  see  how  you  are,  sir,  from  this  distance,"  said 
Robert,  boldly  assuming  his  privilege  to  entei-. 

"Are  you  drunk  P"  Jonathan  asked,  as  Robert  marched 
tip  to  him. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  sir." 

"  Give  me  an  answei-  first.     Are  you  drunk  ?" 

Robert  tried  to  force  the  complacent  aspect  of  a  mind  un- 
abashed, but  felt  that  he  made  a  stupid  show  before  that 
clear-headed,  virtuously-living  old  man  of  iron  nerves.  The 
alternative  to  flying  into  a  passion,  was  the  looking  like  a 
fool. 

"  Come,  father,"  he  said,  with  a  miserable  snigger,  like  a 
yokel's  smile  ;  "  here  I  am  at  last.  I  don't  say,  kill  the 
fatted  calf,  and  take  a  lessoji  from  Scripture,  but  give  me 
your  hand.  I've  done  no  man  harm  but  myself — damned  if 
I've  done  a  mean  thing  anywhere !  and  there's  no  shame  to 
you  in  shaking  your  son's  hand  after  a  long  absence." 

Jonathan  Eccles  kept  both  hands  firmly  in  his  pockets. 

*^  Are  jou  drunk  ?"  he  repeated. 


124  I?nOT>A  FLEMING. 

Roliort  controllfd  himself  to  answer,  "  T'm  not." 

"  Well,  tlieii,  just  ti'U  me  when  you  were  drunk  last." 

"This  is  a  pleusimt  fatherly  greeeting!"  Hobert  inter- 
jected. 

"  You  get  no  good  by  fighting  shy  of  a  simple  question, 
Mr.  Bob,"  said  Jonathan. 

Robert  cried  querulously,  "  I  don't  want  to  fight  shy  of 
a  simple  question." 

"Well,  then;  when  were  you  drunk  last?  answer  mo 
that." 

"  Last  night." 

Jonatlian  drew  his  hand  from  his  pocket  to  thump  his 
leg. 

"  I'd  have  sworn  it !" 

All  Robert's  assurance  had  vanished  in  a  minute,  and  ho 
stood  like  a  convicted  culprit  before  his  fathei-. 

"  You  know,  sir,  I  don't  tell  lies.  I  xcas  drunk  last  night. 
I  couldn't  help  it. 

"  No  more  could  the  little  boy." 

*'  I  was  drunk  last  night.     Say,  I'm  a  beast." 

"I  shan't!"  exclaimed  Jonathan,  making  his  voice  sound 
as  a  defence  to  this  vile  charge  against  the  brutish  cha- 
racter. J 

"  Say,  I'm  worse  Ihan  a  beast,  then."  cried  Robei-t,  in 
exasperation.  "  Take  my  word  tliat  it  hasnt  hapjiencd  to 
me  to  be  in  that  state  for  a  year  and  more.  Last  night  I 
•was  mad.  I  can't  give  you  any  reasons.  I  thought  I  was 
cured  ;  but  I've  trouble  in  my  mind,  and  a  tide  swims  you 
over  the  shallows — so  I  felt.  Come,  sir — father,  don't  make 
me  mad  again." 

"  Whei-e  did  you  get  the  liquor  ?"  inquired  Jonathan. 

"I  drank  at 'The  Pilot.'" 

"Ha  !  there's  talk  there  of  '  that  damned  old  Eccles  '  for 
a  mouth  to  come — '  the  unnatural  parent.'  How  long  have 
you  been  dowii  here  ?" 

"  Eight  and  twenty  hours." 

"  Eight  and  twenty  hours.     When  are  you  going  ?'* 

"  I  want  lodging  for  a  night." 

"What  else?" 

**  The  loan  of  a  horse  that'll  take  a  fence." 

"Goon." 

"And  twenty  pounds." 


A  YEOMAN  OP  THE  OLD  BREED.  125 

"  Oil !"  went  Jonathan.  "  If  farming  came  as  easy  to  you 
as  face,  you'd  be  a  prime  aginculturalist.  Just  what  I 
thought !  What's  become  of  that  money  your  aunt  Jane 
was  fool  enough  to  bequeath  to  you  ?" 

"  I've  spent  it." 

*'  Are  you  a  Deserter  ?" 

For  a  moment  Robert  stood  as  if  listening,  and  then  white 
grew  his  face,  and  he  swayed  and  struck  his  hands  together. 
His  recent  intoxication  had  unmanned  him. 

"  Go  in — go  in,"  said  his  father  in  some  concern,  though 
wrath  was  predominant. 

"  Oh,  make  your  mind  quiet  about  me."  Robert  dropped 
his  arms.  "I'm  weakened  somehow — damned  weak,  I  am 
— I  feel  like  a  woman  when  my  father  asks  me  if  I've  been 
guilty  of  villany.  Desert  ?  I  wouldn't  desert  from  the 
hulks.  Hear  the  worst,  and  this  is  the  worst :  I've  got  no 
money — I  don't  owe  a  penny,  but  I  haven't  got  one." 

"  And  I  won't  give  yon.  one,"  Jonathan  appended ;  and 
they  stood  facing  one  another  in  silence. 

A  squeaky  voice  was  beard  from  the  other  side  of  the 
garden  hedge  of  clipped  yew. 

"  Hi !  farmer,  is  that  the  missing  young  man  ?"  and  pre- 
sently a  neighbour,  by  name  John  Sedgetfc,  came  trotting 
through  the  gate,  and  up  the  garden  path. 

"  I  say,"  he  remarked,  "here's  a  rumpus.  Here's  a  bob- 
bery up  at  Fairly.  Oh !  Bob  Eccles  !  Bob  Eccles  !  At  it 
again !" 

Mr.  Sedgett  shook  his  wallet  of  gossip  with  an  enjoying 
chuckle.  He  was  a  thin-faced  creatuz-e,  rheumy  of  eye, 
and  drawing  his  breath  as  from  a  well  ;  the  ferret  of  the 
village  for  all  underlying  scandal  and  tattle,  whose  sole 
humanity  was  what  he  called  pitifully  '  a  peakin  '  at  his 
chest,  and  who  had  i^etired  from  his  business  of  grocer  in 
the  village  upon  the  fortune  brought  to  him  in  the  energy 
and  capacity  of  a  third  wire  to  conduct  affairs,  while  he 
wandered  up  and  down  and  knitted  people  together — an 
estimable  office  in  a  land  where  your  house  is  so  grievously 
your  castle. 

"  What  the  devil  have  yoa  got  in  you  now  ?"  Jonathan 
cried  out  to  him. 

Mr.  Sedgetfc  was  seized  by  his  complaint  and  demanded 
commiseration,  but  recovering,  he  chuckled  again. 


126  RHODA  FLEWINO. 

"Oh,  Bob  Eccles !  Don't  you  never  grow  older?  And 
the  first  day  down  among  us  again,  too.  Why,  Bob,  as  a 
military  man,  you  ought  to  acknowledge  your  superiors. 
"Why,  Stephen  JJilton,  the  huntsman,  says,  Bob,  you  pulled 
the  young  gentleman  oil'  his  horse — you  on  foot,  and  him 
mounted.  I'd  ha'  given  pounds  to  be  there.  And  ladies 
present!  Lord  help  us  !  I'm  glad  you're  returned,  though. 
These  melons  of  the  farmer's,  tlicy'i-e  a  wonderful  invention; 
people  are  speaking  of  'em  right  and  left,  and  says,  says 
they,  Farmer  Eccles,  he's  best  farmer  going — Hampshire 
ought  to  be  proud  of  him — he's  Avorth  two  of  any  others: 
that  they  are  fine  ones  !  And  you're  come  back  to  keep  'em 
up,  eh,  Bob  ?     Are  ye,  though,  my  man  ?" 

"  Well,  here  I  am,  iMr.  Sedgett,"  said  Robert,  "  and 
talking  to  my  father." 

"  Oh  !  I  YTOuldn't  be  here  to  interrupt  ye  for  the  world." 
Mr.  Sedgett  made  a  show  of  retij-ing,  but  Jonathan  insisted 
npon  his  disburdening  himself  of  his  talc,  saying:  "Damn 
your  raw  beginnings,  Sedgett !  What's  been  up?  Nobody 
can  hui't  me." 

"  That  they  can't,  neighbour ;  nor  Bob  neither,  as  far  as 
Btand-up  man  to  man  go.  I  give  him  three  to  one  —Bub 
Eccles  !  He  took  'em  when  a  boy.  He  may,  you  know,  he 
may  have  the  law  agin  him,  and  by  Gearge !  if  he  do — why, 
a  man's  no  match  for  the  law.  No  use  bein'  a  hero  to  the 
law.  The  law  masters  every  man  alive  ;  and  there's  law  in 
everything,  neighbour  Eccles ;  eh,  sir  ?  Your  friend,  the 
Prince,  owns  to  it,  as  much  as  you  or  me.  But,  of  course, 
you  know  what  Bob's  been  doing.  What  I  dropped  in  to 
ask  was,  why  did  ye  do  it.  Bob  ?  Why  pull  the  young 
gentleman  oft"  his  horse  ?    I'd  ha'  given  pounds  to  be  there  !" 

"  Pounds  o'  tallow  candles  don't  amount  to  much,"  quoth 
Robert. 

"That's  awful  bad  brandy  at  the  'Pilot,'"  said  Mr. 
Sedgett,  venomously. 

"  Were  you  drunk  when  you  committed  this  assault  ?" 
Jonathan  asked  his  son. 

"  I  drank  afterwards,"  Robert  replied. 

"  '  Pilot'  brandy's  poor  consolation,"  remarked  Mr.  Sfcdgett. 

Jonathan  had  half  a  mind  to  turn  his  son  out  of  the  gate, 
but  the  Tiresenr-e  of  Sedgett  advised  him  that  his  doings  were 
naked  to  the  world. 


A  YEOMAN  OP  THE  OLD  BREED.  127 

"  Ton  kicked  up  a  shindy  in  the  hunting-field — what  about  ? 
Who  mounted  ye  ?" 

Robert  remarked  that  he  had  been  on  foot. 

"  On  foot — eh  Y  on  foot !"  Jonathan  speculated,  unable  to 
realise  the  image  of  his  son  as  a  foot-man  in  the  hunting- 
field,  or  to  comprehend  the  insolence  of  a  pedestrian  who 
should  dare  to  attack  a  mounted  huntsman.  "  You  were  on 
foot  ?  The  devil  you  were  on  foot !  Foot  ?  And  caught  a 
man  out  of  his  saddle  ?" 

Jonathan  gave  up  the  puzzle.  He  laid  out  his  forefinger 
decisively : — 

"  If  it's  an  assault,  mind,  you  stand  damages.  My  land 
gives  and  my  land  takes  my  money,  and  no  drunken  dog  lives 
on  the  produce.  A  row  in  the  hunting-field's  un-English,  I 
call  it." 

"  So  it  is,  sir,"  said  Robert. 

"  So  it  be,  neighbour,"  said  Mr.  Sedgetfc. 

Whereupon  Robert  took  his  arm,  and  holding  the  scraggy 
wretch  forward,  commanded  him  to  out  with  what  he  knew. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  no  more  than  what  I've  told  you."  Mr 
Sedgett  twisted  a  feeble  remonstrance  of  his  bones,  that  were 
chiefly  his  being,  at  the  gripe ;  "  except  that  you  got  hold 
the  horse  by  the  bridle,  and  wouldn't  let  him  go,  because  the 
young  gentleman  wouldn't  speak  as  a  gentleman,  and — oh! 
don't  squeeze  so  hard  : " 

"  Out  with  it !  "  cried  Robert. 

"And  you  said,  Steeve  Bilton  said,  you  said — 'Where  is 
she  ?'  you  said,  and  he  swore,  and  you  swore,  and  a  lady  rode 
up,  and  you  pulled,  and  she  sang  out,  and  off  went  the  gentle- 
man, and  Steeve  said  she  said,  '  For  shame.'  " 

"And  it  was  the  truest  word  spoken  that  day !"  Robert 
released  him.  "You  don't  know  much,  Mr.  Sedgett ;  but  it's 
enough  to  make  me  explain  the  cause  to  my  father,  and,  with 
your  leave,  I'll  do  so." 

Mr.  Sedgett  remarked:  "By  all  means,  do;"  and  rather 
preferred  that  his  wits  should  be  accused  of  want  of  bright- 
ness, than  that  he  should  miss  a  chance  of  hearing  the  rich 
history  of  the  scandal  and  its  origin.  Something  stronger 
than  a  hint  sent  him  off  at  a  trot,  hugging  in  his  elbows. 

"  The  postman  won't  do  his  business  quicker  than  Sedgett 
*11  tap  this  tale  upon  every  door  in  the  parish,"  said 
Jonathan. 


128  RHODA  FLEMFXO. 

"  I  can  only  pay  I'm  sorry,  for  your  sake ;"  Robert  was 
exprcssinj^  his  contn'tii;n,  when  liis  fatht-r  caught  huu  up: 

"Who  can  hurt  me  ? — my  sake  ?  Have  I  got  the  habits 
of  a  sot  ? — what  you'd  call  '  a  boast !'  but  I  know  the  ways  o' 
beasts,  and  if  you  did  too,  you  wouldn't  brinc^  them  in  to  bear 
your  beastly  sins.  Who  can  hurt  me? — You've  been  quar- 
rellincr  with  this  young  gentleman  about  a  woman — did  you 
damat^e  him  ?" 

"  If  knucKlcs  could  do  it,  I  should  have  brained  him,  sir," 
said  Robert. 

"  You  struck  him,  and  you  got  the  best  of  it  ?" 

"  He  got  the  worst  of  it  any  way,  and  will  again." 

"  Then  the  devil  take  you  for  a  fool  !  why  did  you  go  and 
drink  ?  I  could  understand  it  if  you  got  licked.  Drown 
your  memory  then,  if  that  filthy  soaking's  to  your  taste  ;  but 
why,  when  you  get  the  prize,  Ave'll  say,  you  go  off  headlong 
into  a  manure  pond  ? — there  !  except  that  you're  a  damned 
idiot !"  Jonathan  struck  the  air,  as  to  observe  that  it  beat 
him,  but  for  the  foregoing  elucidation :  thundering  afresh, 
*'  Why  did  you  go  and  drink  ?" 

"  I  went,  sir,  I  went — why  did  I  go  ?"  Robert  slapped 
his  hand  despairingly  to  his  forehead.  "  What  on  earth  did 
I  go  for? — because  I'm  at  sea,  I  suppose.  Nobody  cares  for 
me.  I'm  at  sea,  and  no  rudder  to  steer  me.  I  suppose  that's 
it.  So,  I  drank.  I  thought  it  best  to  take  spirits  on  board. 
'No;  this  was  the  reason — I  remember:  that  lady,  whoever 
she  was,  said  something  that  stung  me.  1  held  the  fellow 
under  her  eyes,  and  shook  him,  though  she  was  begging  me 
to  let  him  off.  Says  she — but  Ivc  drunk  it  clean  out  of  my 
mind." 

"  There,  go  in  and  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass,"  said 
Jonathan. 

"Give  me  your  hand  first," — Robert  put  his  own  out 
humbly. 

"Ill  be  hanged  if  I  do,"  said  Jonathan  firmly.  "Bed  and 
board  you  shall  have  while  I'm  alive,  and  a  glass  to  look  at 
yourself  in  ;  but  my  hand's  for  decent  beasts.  Move  one  way 
or  t'other  :  take  your  choice." 

Seeing  Robert  hesitate,  ho  added,  "  I  shall  have  a  damned 
deal  more  respect  for  you  if  you  toddle."  He  waved  hia 
hand  away  from  the  premises. 


A  YEOMAN  OP  THE  OLD  BREED.  129 

"  I'm  sorry  you've  taken  so  to  swearing  of  late,  sir,"  said 

Robert. 

"  Two  flints  strike  fire,  my  lad.  When  you  keep  distant, 
I'm  quiet  enough  in  my  talk  to  satisfy  your  aunt  Anne." 

"  Look  here,  sir ;  I  want  to  make  use  of  you,  so  I'll 
go  in." 

"  Of  course  you  do,"  returned  Jonathan,  not  a  whit  dis- 
pleased by  his  son's  bluntness  ;  "  what  else  is  a  father  good 
for  ?  I  let  you  know  the  limit,  and  that's  a  brick  wall ; 
jump  it,  if  you  can.  Don't  fancy  it's  your  aunt  Jane  you're 
going  in  to  meet." 

Robert  had  never  been  a  favourite  with  his  Aunt  Anne,  who 
was  Jonathan's  housekeeper. 

"  Xo,  poor  old  soul !  and  may  God  bless  her  in  heaven  !" 
he  cried. 

"  For  leaving  you  what  you  turned  into  a  thundering  lot 
of  liquor  to  consume — eh  ?" 

"  For  doing  all  in  her  power  to  make  a  man  of  me ;  and 
she  was  close  on  it — kind,  good  old  darling,  that  she  was  ! 
She  got  me  with  that  money  of  hers  to  the  best  footing  I've 
been  on  yet — bless  her  heart,  or  her  memory,  or  whatever 
a  poor  devil  on  earth  may  bless  an  angel  for !  But  here 
I  am." 

The  fever  in  Robert  blazed  out  under  a  pressure  of  extin- 
guishing tears. 

"  There,  go  along  in,"  said  Jonathan,  who  considered 
drunkenness  to  be  the  main  source  of  water  in  a  man's  eyes. 
"  It's  my  belief  you've  been  at  it  already  this  morning." 

Robert  passed  into  the  house  in  advance  of  his  father, 
whom  he  quite  understood  and  appreciated.  There  was 
plenty  of  paternal  love  for  him,  and  a  hearty  smack  of  the 
hand,  and  the  inheritance  of  the  farm,  when  he  turned  into 
the  right  way.  Meantime  Jonathan  was  ready  to  fulfil  his 
parental  responsibility,  by  sheltering,  feeding,  and  not 
publicly  abusing  his  offspring,  of  whose  spirit  he  would  have 
had  a  higher  opinion  if  Robert  had  preferred,  since  he  must 
go  to  the  deuce,  to  go  without  troublinar  any  of  his  relatives ; 
as  it  was,  Jonathan  submitted  to  the  infliction  gravely. 
Neither  in  speech  nor  in  tone  did  he  solicit  from  the  severe 
maiden,  known  as  Aunt  Anne,  that  snub  for  the  wanderer 
whom  he  introduced,  which,  when  two  are  agreed  upon  the 
infamous  character  of  a  third,  through  whom  they   are  suf- 

£ 


130  EHOUA  FLEMING. 

ferinf^,   it  is    nlways    agreoable   to  hear.     He  said,  "Here, 
Anno  ;  here's  Hubert.     He  hasn't  breaklasted." 

"  He  likes  his  cold  bath  beforehand,"  said  Robert,  pre- 
sentinsf  his  clieek  to  the  fleslik-ss,  semi-transparent  woman. 

Aunt  Anne  divided  hei-  lips  to  pronounce  a  crisp,  subdued 
*'  Ow  !"  to  Jonathan  after  inspectini^  liubei't ;  and  she  shud- 
dered at  sight  of  Robert,  and  said  "Ow!"  repeatedly,  by 
way  of  an  interjectory  token  of  compreliension,  to  all  that 
was  uttered ;  but  it  was  a  hoi'rified  "  No  !"  when  Robert's 
cheek  pushed  nearer. 

"  Then,  see  to  getting  some  breakfast  for  him,"  said  Jona- 
than.    "You're  not  anyway  bound  to  kiss  a  drunken ." 

"  Dog's  the  word,  sir,"  Robert  helped  him.  "  Dogs  can 
afford  it.  I  never  saw  one  in  that  state  ;  so  they  don't  lose 
character." 

He  spoke  lightly,  but  dejection  was  in  his  attitude.  When, 
his  aunt  Anne  had  left  the  room,  he  exclaimed  : 

"  By  jingo  !  women  make  you  feel  it,  by  some  way  that 
they  have.  She's  a  religious  creature.  She  smells  the 
devil  in  me." 

"  More  like,  the  brandy,"  his  father  responded. 

"Well!  I'm  on  the  road:  I'm  on  the  road!"  Robert 
fetched  a  sigh. 

"  I  didn't  make  the  road,"  said  his  father. 

"No,  sir;  you  didn't.  Work  hard:  sleep  sound:  that's 
happiness.  I've  known  it  for  a  year.  You're  the  man  I'd 
imitate,  if  I  could.  The  devil  came  first:  the  brandy's 
secondary.  I  was  quiet  so  long.  I  thought  myself  a  safe 
man." 

He  sat  down  and  sent  his  hair  distraught  with  an  effort 
at  smoothing  it. 

"  Women   brought  the    devil  into  the   world  first.      It's 

women  who  raise  the  devil  in  us,  and  why  they ?" 

He  thumped  the  table  just  as  his  Aunt  Anne  was  pre- 
paring to  spread  the  cloth. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  woman,"  said  Jonathan,  seeing  her 
start  fearfully  back.  "  You  take  too  many  cujjs  of  tea, 
morning  and  night — hang  the  stuff  !" 

"  Never,  never  till  now  have  you  abused  me,  Jonathan," 
she  whimpered,  severely. 

"  I  don't  tell  you  to  love  him ;  but  wait  on  him.     That's 


AN  ASSEMBLY  AT  THE  PILOT  INN.  131 

all.  And  I'll  about  my  business.  Land  and  beasts — they 
anstver  to  you." 

Robert  looked  up. 

"  Land  and  beasts !  They  sound  like  blessed  things. 
When  next  I  go  to  church,  I  shall  know  what  old  Adam  felt. 
Go  along,  sir.     I  shall  break  nothing  in  the  house." 

"  Tou  won't  go,  Jonathan  ?"  begged  the  trembling 
spinster. 

"  Give  him  some  of  your  tea,  and  strong,  and  as  much  of 

as  he  can  take — he  wants  bringing  down,"  was  Jonathan's 
answer ;  and  casting  a  glance  at  one  of  the  framed  letters, 
he  strode  through  the  doorway,  and  Aunt  Anne  was  alone 
with  the  flushed  face  and  hurried  eyes  of  her  nephew,  who 
was  to  her  little  better  than  a  demon  in  the  flesh.  But  there 
was  a  Bible  in  the  room. 

An  hour  later,  Robert  was  mounted  and  riding  to  the 
meet  of  hounds 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

AN  ASSEMBLY  AT  THE  PILOT  INN. 


A  SINGLE  night  at  the  Pilot  Inn  had  given  life  and  vigour 
to  Robert's  old  reputation  in  Warbeach  village,  as  the 
stoutest  of  drinkers  and  dear  rascals  throughout  a  sailor- 
breeding  district,  where  Dibdin  was  still  thundered  in  the 
ale-house,  and  manhood  in  a  great  degree  measured  by  the 
capacity  to  take  liquor  on  board  as  a  ship  takes  ballast. 
There  was  a  profound  affectation  of  deploring  the  sad  fact 
that  he  drank  as  hard  as  ever,  among  the  men,  and  genuine 
pity  expressed  for  him  by  the  women  of  Warbeach  ;  but  his 
fame  was  fresh  again.  As  the  Spring  brings  back  its 
flowers,  Robert's  presence  revived  his  youthful  deeds.  There 
had  not  been  a  boxer  in  the  neighbourhood  like  Robert 
Eccles,  nor  such  a  champion  in  all  games,  nor,  when  he  set 
himself  to  it,  such  an  invincible  didnker.  It  was  he  who 
thrashed  the  brute,  Nic  Sedgett,  for  stabbing  with  his  clasp- 
knife  Harry  Boulby,  son  of  the  landlady  of  the  Pilot  Innj 

k2 


132  RHODA  FLEMING. 

thiaslicd  him  publicly,  to  llic  comfort  of  all  "Warlieach.  He 
had  rescued  old  Dumo  Garljlo  from  hor  burning  cottage,  and 
made  his  father  house  the  old  creature,  and  worked  at  farm- 
ini,',  though  he  hated  it,  to  pay  for  her  subsistence.  He 
vindicated  the  honour  of  Warbcach  by  drinking  a  match 
against  a  Yorkshire  skipper  till  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
■when  it  was  a  gallant  sight,  my  boys,  to  see  Hampshire 
steadying  the  defeated  Xorth-countrynum  on  his  astonished 
zigzag  to  hi£j  flattish-bottomed  billyboy,  all  in  the  cheery 
sunrise  on  the  river — yo-ho  !  ahoy  ! 

Glorious  Robert  had  tried,  tirst  the  sea,  and  then  soldier- 
ing. Now  let  us  hope  hell  settle  to  farming,  and  follow  his 
rare  old  father's  ways,  and  be  back  among  his  own  people 
for  good.  So  chimed  the  younger  ones,  and  many  of  the 
elder. 

Danish  blood  had  settled  round  "Warbeach.  To  be  a  really 
popular  hero  anywhere  in  Britain,  a  lad  must  still,  I  fear, 
ha.ve  something  of  a  Scandinavian  gullet ;  and  if,  in  addition 
to  his  being  a  powerful  drinker,  he  is  pleasant  in  his  cups, 
and  can  sing,  and  forgive,  be  free-handed,  and  roll  out  the 
grand  risky  phrases  of  a  fii-ed  brain,  he  stamps  himself,  in 
the  ap})rehension  of  his  associates,  a  king. 

Much  of  the  stuff  was  required  to  deal  King  Robert  of 
Warbeach  the  capital  stroke,  and  commonly  he  could  hold 
on  till  a  puff  of  cold  air  from  the  outer  door,  like  an  admoni- 
tory messenger,  reminded  him  that  he  was,  in  the  greatness 
of  his  soul,  a  king  of  swine  ;  after  which  his  way  of  walking 
off,  without  a  woi'd  to  anybody,  hoisting  his  whole  stature, 
while  others  were  staggering,  or  roaring  foul  rhymes,  or 
feeling  consciously  mortal  in  their  sensation  of  feverishness, 
became  a  theme  for  admiration :  ay,  and  he  was  fresh  as  an 
orchard  apple  in  the  morning  !  there  lay  his  commandership 
convincingly.  What  was  proved  overnight  was  confirmed  at 
da  vn. 

Mr.  Robert  had  his  controst  in  Sedgett's  son,  Nicodemus 
Sedgett,  whose  unlucky  Christian  name  had  assisted  the 
wits  of  Warbeach  in  bestowing  on  him  a  darkly-luminous 
relationship.  Young  Nic  loved  also  to  steep  his  spirit  in  the 
bowl ;  but,  in  addition  to  his  never  ])aying  for  his  luxury,  he 
drank  as  if  in  emulation  of  the  colour  of  his  reputed  patron, 
and  neighbourhood  to  Xic  Sedgett  was  7iot  liked  when  that 
young  man  became  thoughtful  over  his  glrss. 


AN  ASSEMBLY  AT  THE  PILOT  INN.  133 

The  episode  of  Lis  stabbing  the  landlady's  son  Harry  clung 
to  him  fatally.  The  wound  was  in  the  thigh,  and  nothing 
serious.  Harry  was  up  and  olf  to  sea  before  Nic  had 
ceased  to  show  the  marks  of  Robert's  vengeance  upon  him  ; 
but  blood-shedding,  even  on  a  small  scale,  is  so  detested 
by  Englishmen,  that  Nic  never  got  back  to  his  right  hue  in 
the  eyes  of  Warbeach.  None  felt  to  him  as  to  a  country- 
man, and  it  may  be  supposed  that  his  face  was  seen  no  more 
in  the  house  of  gathering,  the  Pilot  Inn. 

He  rented  one  of  the  Fairly  farms,  known  as  the  Three- 
Tree  Farm,  subsisting  there,  men  fancied,  by  the  aid  of  his 
housekeeper's  money.  For  he  was  of  those  evil  fellows  who 
disconcert  all  righteous  prophecy,  and  it  was  vain  for  Mrs. 
Boulby  and  Warbeach  village  to  declare  that  no  good  could 
come  to  him,  when  Fortune  manifestly  kept  him  going. 

He  possessed  the  rogue's  most  serviceable  art :  in  spite  of 
a  countenance  that  was  not  attractive,  this  fellow  could,  as 
was  proved  by  evidence,  make  himself  pleasing  to  women. 
*'  The  truth  of  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Boulby,  at  a  loss  for  any 
other  explanation,  and  with  a  woman's  love  of  sharp  general- 
ization, "  it's  because  my  sex  is  fools." 

He  had  one  day  no  money  to  pay  his  rent,  and  forthwith 
(using  for  the  purpose  his  last  five  shillings,  it  was  said) 
advertized  for  a  housekeeper ;  and  before  Warbeach  had  done 
chuckling  over  his  folly,  an  agreeable  woman  of  about  thirty- 
five  was  making  purchases  in  his  name ;  she  made  tea,  and 
the  evening  brew  for  such  friends  as  he  could  collect,  and 
apparently  paid  his  rent  for  him,  after  a  time ;  the  distrc  as 
was  not  in  the  house  three  days.  It  seemed  to  Warbeach  an 
erratic  p]OC3edingon  the  part  of  Providence,  that  Nic  should 
ever  be  helped  to  swim  ;  but  our  modern  prophets  have  small 
patience,  aTid  summon  Destiny  to  strike  without  a  prepara- 
tion of  her  we  ipons  or  a  warning  to  the  victim. 

More  than  Robert's  old  occasional  vice  was  at  the  bottom 
of  his  populHvity,  as  I  need  not  say.  Let  those  who  gene- 
ralize upon  ethnology  determine  whether  the  ancient  opposi- 
tion of  Saxon  and  Norman  be  at  an  end  ;  but  it  is  certain,  to 
my  thinking,  that  when  a  hero  of  the  people  can  be  got  from 
the  common  popular  stock,  he  is  doubly  dear.  A  gentleman, 
however  gallant  and  familiar,  will  hardly  ever  be  as  much 
beloved,  until  he  dies  to  inform  a  legend  or  a  ballad  :  seeing 
that  death  only  can  remove  the  peculiar   distinctions  and 


134  RHODA  FLEMING. 

distanoos  wliit^h  tho  peo])le  foel  to  exist  between  tTiemselve* 
and  the  ^eiitlemaii-class,  and  which,  not  to  credit  them  with 
preternatural  discernment,  they  are  carefully  taught  to  feel. 
Dead  llritons  are  all  13ritons,  but  live  Britons  are  not  quite 
brothers. 

It  was  as  the  son  of  a  yeoman,  showing  comprehensible 
accomplishments,  that  Robert  took  his  lead.  He  was  a  veiy 
brave,  a  sweot-hcarted,  and  a  handsome  young  man,  and  he 
had  very  chivalrous  views  of  life  that  were  understood  by  a 
sulHcient  number  under  the  influence  of  ale  or  brandy,  and 
by  a  few  in  default  of  that  material  aid  ;  and  they  had  a 
family  ])ride  in  him.  The  pride  was  mixed  with  fear  that 
threw  over  it  a  tender  light,  like  a  mother's  dream  of  her 
child.  The  people,  I  have  said,  are  not  so  lost  in  self-con- 
tempt as  to  undervalue  their  best  men,  but  it  must  be 
admitted  that  they  rarely  produce  young  fellows  wearing  the 
undeniable  chieftain's  stamp,  and  the  rarity  of  one  like 
Robert  lent  a  hue  of  sadness  to  him  in  their  thoughts. 

Fortune,  moreover,  the  favourer  of  Nic  Sedgett,  blew  foul 
whichever  the  way  Robert  set  his  sails.  He  would  not  look 
to  his  own  advantage  ;  and  the  belief  that  man  should  set 
his  little  traps  for  the  liberal  hand  of  his  God,  if  he  wishes 
to  prosper,  rather  than  strive  to  be  merely  honourable  in  his 
Maker's  eye,  is  almost  as  general  among  poor  people  as  it  is 
with  the  moneyed  classes,  who  survey  them  from  their 
height. 

When  jolly  Butcher  Billing,  who  Avas  one  of  the  limited 
company  which  had  sat  with  Robert  at  the  '  Pilot '  last 
niglit,  re]iorted  that  he  had  qiiitted  the  «army,  he  was  heark- 
ened to  dolefully,  and  the  feeling  was  univer.sal  that  glorious 
Robert  had  cut  himself  off  from  his  pension  and  his 
hospital. 

But  when  gossip  Sedgett  went  his  rounds,  telling  that 
Robert  was  down  among  them  again  upon  the  darkest  expe- 
dition their  minds  could  conceive,  and  rode  out  every  morn- 
ing for  the  purpose  of  encountering  one  of  the  gentlemen  up 
at  Fairly,  and  had  already  pulled  him  off  his  horse  and  laid 
him  in  the  mnd,  calling  him  scoundrel  and  cliallenging  him 
either  to  yield  his  scciet  or  to  light,  and  that  he  followed 
him,  and  was  out  after  him  publicly,  and  matched  himself 
against  that  gentleman,  who  had  all  the  either  gentlemen, 
and    the  earl,   and   the   law    to    back   him,   the   little  place 


AN  ASSEilBLY  AT  THE  PILOT  INN.  135 

buzzed  with.  Avonder  and  alarm.  Faint  hearts  declared  that 
Robert  was  now  done  for.  All  felt  that  he  had  gone  miles 
beyond  the  mark.  Those  were  the  misty  days  when  fogs 
rolled  up  the  salt  river  from,  the  winter  sea,  and  the  sun 
lived  but  an  hour  in  the  clotted  sky,  extinguished  near  the 
noon. 

Robert  was  seen  riding  out,  and  the  tramp  of  his  horse 
was  heard  as  he  returned  homeward.  He  called  no  more  at 
the 'Pilot.'  Darkness  and  mystery  enveloped  him.  There 
were  niglitly  meetings  under  Mrs.  Boulby's  roof,  in  the  belief 
that  he  could  not  withstand  her  temptations  ;  nor  did  she 
imprudently  discourage  them ;  but  the  woman  at  last  over- 
came the  landlady  within  her,  and  she  wailed  :  "  He  won't 
come  because  of  the  drink.  Oh !  why  was  I  made  to  sell 
liquor,  w^hich  he  says  sends  him  to  the  devil,  poor  blessed 
boy  ?  and  I  can't  help  begging  him  to  take  one  little  drop. 
I  did,  the  first  night  he  was  down,  forgetting  his  ways ;  he 
looked  so  desperate,  he  did,  and  it  went  on  and  went  on,  till 
he  was  primed,  and  me  proud  to  see  him  get  out  of  his 
misery.     And  now  he  hates  the  thought  of  me." 

In  her  despair  she  encoui'aged  Sedgett  to  visit  her  bar  and 
parlour,  and  he  became  everywhere  a  most  important  man. 

Farmer  Eccles's  habits  of  seclusion  (his  pride,  some  said), 
and  more  especially  the  dreaded  austere  Aunt  Anne,  who 
ruled  that  household,  kept  people  distant  from  the  Warbeach 
farm-house,  all  excepting  Sedgett,  who  related  that  every 
night  on  his  return,  she  read  a  chapter  from  the  Bible  to 
Robert,  sitting  up  for  him  patiently  to  fulfil  his  duty ;  and 
that  the  farmer's  words  to  his  son  had  been  :  "  Rest  here  ; 
eat  and  drink,  and  ride  my  horse ;  but  not  a  penny  of  my 
money  do  you  have." 

By  the  help  of  Steeve  Bilton,  the  Fairly  huntsman, 
Sedgett  was  enabled  to  relate  that  there  was  a  combination 
of  the  gentlemen  against  Robert,  whose  behaviour  none  could 
absolutely  approve,  save  the  landlady  and  jolly  Butcher 
Billing,  who  stuck  to  him  with  a  hearty  blind  faith. 

"Did  he  ever,"  asked  the  latter,  "did  Bob  Eccles  ever 
conduct  himself  disrespectful  to  his  superiors  ?  Wasn't  he 
always  found  out  at  his  wildest  for  to  be  right — to  a  sensible 
man's  way  of  thinking  ? — though  not,  I  grant  ye,  to  his  own 
interests — there's  another  tale."  And  Mr  Billing's  staunch 
adherence  to  the  hero  of  the  village  was  cried  out  to  his  credit 


136  RHODA  FLEMING. 

when  Sedgett  stated,  on  Stephen  Bilton's  authority,  that 
Robert's  errand  was  the  defence  of  a  girl  wlio  had  been 
wronged,  and  whose  whcreabont,  that  she  might  be  restored 
to  her  parents,  was  all  ho  wanted  to  know.  This  story  passed 
from  mouth  to  mouth,  receiving  much  ornament  in  the 
passage.  The  girl  in  question  betame  a  lady;  for  it  is 
required  of  a  mere  common  girl  that  she  should  display 
remarkable  character  before  she  can  be  accepted  as  the  fitting 
companion  of  a  popular  hero.  She  became  a  young  lady  of 
fortune,  in  love  with  llobert,  and  concealed  by  the  artilice 
of  the  oiTending  gentleman  whom  Robert  had  challenged. 
Sedgett  told  this  for  truth,  being  instigated  to  boldness  of 
invention  by  pertinacious  inquiries,  and  the  dignified  sense 
which  the  Avhole  stoiy  hung  npon  him. 

Mrs.  Boulby,  who,  as  a  towering  woman,  despised  Sedgett's 
weak  frame,  had  been  willing  to  listen  till  she  perceived  him 
to  be  but  a  man  of  fiction,  and  then  she  gave  him  a  flat  con- 
tradiction, having  no  esteem  for  his  custom. 

"  Eh !  but.  Missis,  I  can  tell  you  his  name — the  gentle- 
man's name,"  said  Sedgett,  placably.  "  He's  a  Mr.  Algernon 
Blancove,  and  a  cousin  by  marriage,  or  something,  of  Mrs. 
Lovell." 

"  I  reckon  you're  right  about  that,  goodman,"  replied  Mrs. 
Boulby,  with  intuitive  discernment  of  the  true  from  the  false, 
mingled  with  a  desire  to  show  that  she  was  under  no  obliga- 
tion for  the  news.  "All  t'other's  a  tale  of  your  own,  and 
you  know  it,  and  no  more  true  than  your  rigmaroles  about 
my  brandy,  which  is  French ;  it  is,  as  sure  as  my  blood's 
British." 

"  Oh  !  Missis,"  quoth  Sedgett,  maliciously,  "  as  to  tales, 
you've  got  witnesses  enough  it  crasscd  chanu'l.  Aha  !  Don't 
bring  'em  into  the  box.  Don't  you  bring  'em  into  ne"er  a  box." 
"  You  mean  to  say,  ^Ir.  Sedgett,  they  won't  swear  ?" 
"  No,  Missis  ;  they'll  swear,  fast  and  sale,  if  you  teach 
'em.  Dashed  if  they  won't  run  the  '  Pilot '  on  a  rock  with 
their  swearin'.     It  ain't  a  good  habit." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Sedgett,  the  next  time  you  drink  my  brandy 
and  find  the  consequences  bad,  you  let  me  hear  of  it." 
"  And  what'U  you  do.  Missis,  may  be  ?" 
Listeners    were   by,   and   Mrs.    Boulby    cruelly    retoited : 
"  I  won't  send  you  home  to  your  wife  ;"  which  created  a  roai 
against  this  hen-pecked  man. 


AN  ASSEMBLY  AT  THE  PILOT  INN.  137 

*'  As  to  consequences,  Missis,  it's  for  your  sake  I'm  loolrin^ 
at  them,"  Sedgett  said,  when  lie  had  recovered  from  the 
blow. 

"  You  say  that  to  the  Excise,  Mr.  Sedgett ;  it,  belike,  'II 
make  'em  sorry." 

"  Brandy's  your  weak  point,  it  appears,  Missis." 

*'  A  little  in  you  would  stiffen  your  back,  Mr.  Sedgett." 

**  Poor  Bob  Eccles  didn't  want  no  stiffening  when  he  come 
down  first,"  Sedgett  interjected. 

At  which,  flushing  enraged,  Mrs.  Boulby  cried  :  "  Mention 
him,  indeed  !  And  him  and  you,  and  that  son  of  your'n — 
the  shame  of  your  cheeks  if  people  say  he's  like  his  father.  Is 
it  your  son,  Nic  Sedgett,  thinks  to  inform  against  me,  as 
once  he  swore  to,  and  to  get  his  wage  that  he  may  step  out 
of  a  second  bankruptcy  ? — and  he  a  farmer !  You  let  him 
know  that  he  isn't  feared  by  me,  Sedgett,  and  there's  one 
here  to  give  him  a  second  dose,  without  waiting  for  him  to 
nse  clasp-knives  on  harmless  innocents." 

"  Pacify  yourself,  ma'am,  pacify  yourself,"  remarked  Sed- 
gett,  hardened  against  words  abroad  by  his  endurance  of 
blows  at  home.  "  Bob  Eccles,  he's  got  his  hands  full,  and 
he,  may  be,  '11  reach  the  hulks  before  my  Wic  do,  yet.  And 
how  'm  I  answerable  for  Nic,  I  ask  you  ?" 

"More  luck  to  you  not  to  be,  I  say;  and  either,  Sedgett, 
you  does  woman's  work,  gossipin'  about  like  a  cracked  bell- 
clapper,  or  men's  the  biggest  gossips  of  all,  which  I  believe ; 
for  there's  no  beating  you  at  your  work,  and  one  can't  wish 
ill  to  you,  knowing  what  you  catch." 

"  In  a  friendly  way,  Missis," — Sedgett  fixed  on  the  compli- 
ment  to  his  power  of  propagating  news — "  in  a  friendly  way. 
You  can't  accuse  me  of  leavin'  out  the  '  1 '  in  your  name,  now, 
can  you  ?  I  make  that  observation," — the  venomous  tattler 
screwed  himself  up  to  the  widow  insinuatingly,  as  if  her 
understanding  could  only  be  seized  at  close  quarters, — "  I 
make  that  observation,  because  poor  Dick  Boulby,  your 
lamented  husband — eh  !  poor  Dick  !  You  see,  Missis,  it 
ain't  the  tough  ones  last  longest :  he'd  sing,  '  Tm.  a  ISea- 
Boohy,'  to  the  song,  '  Tm  a  green  Mermaid :'  poor  Dick ! 
'  a-shinin  ujjon  the  sea-deeps.'  He  kept  the  liquor  from  his 
head,  but  didn't  mean  it  to  stop  down  in  his  leg." 

"  Have  you  done,  Mr.  Sedgett?"  said  the  widow,  blandly, 

"You  ain't  angry,  Missis  ?" 


138  SHODA  PLEMTNO. 

"  Not  a  bit,  Mr.  Sedgett ;  and  if  I  knock  you  over  with  the 
flat  o'  my  hand,  don't  you  tliink  so." 

iSedi,''ett  tlirow  up  the  wizened  skin  of  his  forehead,  and 
reti-eated  fr(tm  the  liar.  At  a  sufe distance,  he  called  :  "Bad 
news  that  about  Bob  Eecles  swallowing  a  blow  yesterday !"' 

Mrs.  Boulby  faced  him  complacently  till  he  retired,  and 
then  observed  to  those  of  his  sex  surrounding'  her,  "  Don't 
*  woman-and-dog-and- walnut-tree  '  me!  Some  of  you  men 
*d  be  the  better  for  a  drubbing  every  day  of  your  lives. 
Sedgett  yond'  'd  be  as  big  a  villain  as  his  son,  only  for  what 
he  gets  at  home." 

That  was  her  way  of  replying  to  the  Parthian  arrow ;  but 
the  barb  was  poisoned.  The  village  was  at  fever  heat  con- 
cerning Robert,  and  this  assertion  that  he  had  swallowed  a 
blow,  produced  almost  as  great  a  constei-nation  as  if  a  fleet  of 
the  enemv  had  been  reported  off  Sandy  Point. 

]\Ii;5.  lioulby  went  into  her  parlour  and  wrote  a  letter  to 
Robert,  which  she  despatched  by  one  of  the  loungers  about 
the  bar,  who  brought  buck  news,  that  three  of  the  gentlemen 
of  Fairly  were  on  horseback,  talking  to  Fai-mer  Eecles  at  his 
garden  gate.  Affairs  were  waxing  hot.  The  gentlemen  had 
only  to  threaten  Farmer  Eecles,  to  make  him  side  with  Iiia 
son,  right  or  wrong.  In  the  evening,  S';ephen  Bilton,  the 
huntsman,  pi'csented  himself  at  the  door  of  the  long  parlour 
of  the  '  Pilot,'  and  loud  cheers  were  his  greeting  from  a  full 
company. 

"Gentlemen  all,"  said  Stephen,  with  dapper  modesty; 
and  acted  as  if  no  excitement  were  current,  and  he  had 
nothing  to  tell. 

"  AVell,  Steeve  ?"  said  one,  to  encoTirage  him. 

"  How  about  Bob,  to-day  '*"  said  another. 

Before  Stephen  had  spoken,  it  was  clear  to  the  apprehen- 
sion of  the  whole  room  that  he  did  not  share  the  ])opu]ar 
view  of  Robert.  Pie  declined  to  understand  who  was  meant 
by  '  Bob.'  He  played  the  questions  off ;  and  then  shrugged, 
with,  "  Oh,  let's  have  a  quiet  evening." 

It  ended  in  his  saying,  "  About  Bob  Eecles  ?  There, 
that's  summed  up  pretty  quick — he's  mad." 

"  i\fad!"  shouted  Warbeaoh. 

"Tlnit's  a  lie,"  said  Mrs.  Boulby,  from  the  doorway. 

"  Well,  mum,  I  let  a  lady  have  her  own  opinion."  Stephen 
nodded  to  her.     "  There  ain't  a  doubt  as  t'  what  the  doctors 


AN  ASSEMBLY  AT  THE  PILOT  INN.  139 

'd  brinq-  him  in.  I  ain't  speaking  my  ideas  alone.  It's 
written  like  the  capital  letters  in  a  newspaper.  Lunatic's 
the  word  !  And  I'll  take  a  glass  of  something  warm,  Mrs. 
Boulby.     We  had  a  stiff  run  to-day." 

"  Where  did  ye  kill,  Steeve  ?"  asked  a  dispirited 
voice. 

"  We  didn't  kill  at  all :  he  was  one  of  those  'long  shore 
dogfoxes,  and  got  away  home  on  the  cliff."  Stephen  thumped 
his  knee.  "  It's  my  belief  the  smell  o'  sea  gives  'em  extra 
cunning." 

"The  beggar  seems  to  have  put  ye  out  rether  —  eh, 
Steeve  ?" 

So  it  was  generally  presumed :  and  yet  the  charge  o£ 
madness  was  very  staggering  ;  madness  being,  in  the  iirst 
place,  indefensible,  and  everybody's  enemy  when  at  large  ; 
and  Robert's  behaviour  looked  extremely  like  it.  It  had 
already  been  as  a  black  shadow  haunting  enthusiastic  minds 
in  the  village,  and  there  fell  a  short  silence,  during  which 
Stephen  m.ade  his  preparations  for  filling  and  lighting  a 
pipe. 

"  Come ;  how  do  you  make  out  he's  mad  ?" 

Jolly  Butcher  Billing  spoke  ;  but  with  none  of  the  irony 
of  confidence. 

'■  Oh !"  Stephen  merely  clapped  both  elbows  against  his 
sides. 

Several  pairs  of  eyes  were  studying  him.  He  glanced 
over  them  in  turn,  and  commenced  leisurely  the  puff  con- 
templative. 

"  Don't  happen  to  have  a  grudge  of  e'er  a  kind  against 
old  Bob,  Steeve  ?" 

"Not  I!" 

Mrs.  Boulby  herself  brought  his  glass  to  Stephen,  and, 
retreating,  left  the  parlour-door  open. 

"  What  causes  you  for  to  think  him  mad,  Steeve  ?" 

A  second  "  Oh  !"  as  from  the  heights  dominating  argu- 
ment, sounded  from  Stephen's  throat,  half  like  a  grunt. 
This  time  he  condescended  to  add : 

"  How  do  you  know  when  a  dog's  gone  mad  ?  Well, 
Robert  Eccles,  he's  gone  in  like  manner.  If  you  don't  judge 
a  man  by  his  actions,  you've  got  no  means  of  reckoning-. 
He  comes  and  attacks  gentlemen,  and  swears  he'll  go  on 
doing  it." 


140  EnODA  PLEMINO. 

"  "Well,  and  what  does  tliat  prove  ?"  said  jolly  Butcher 
Billinj^. 

Mr.  William  ^Moody,  boat-builder,  a  liver-complexioned 
citizen,  undei-took  to  reply, 

"What  does  tliat  prove?  What  does  that  prove  when 
the  niidshipmite  was  found  with  his  head  in  the  mixed- 
pickle  jar?  It  proved  that  his  head  was  lean,  and  t'  otlier 
pai't  was  rounder." 

The  illustration  appeared  forcible,  but  not  direct,  and 
nothing  more  was  understood  from  it  than  that  bloody,  and 
two  or  three  others  who  had  been  struck  by  the  image  of 
the  infatuated  young  naval  officer,  were  going  over  to  the 
enemy.  The  stamp  of  madness  upon  Robert's  acts  certainly 
saved  perplexity,  and  was  the  easiest  side  of  the  argum(>nt. 
By  this  time  Stephen  had  finished  his  glass,  and  the  efl'cct 
was  seen. 

"Hang  it!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  don't  agree  he  deserves 
shooting.  And  he  may  have  had  harm  done  to  him.  In 
that  case,  let  him  light.  And  I  say,  too,  let  the  gentleman 
give  him  satisfaction." 

"  Hear  !  hear  !"  cried  several. 

"And  if  the  gentleman  refuse  to  give  him  satisfaction  in 
a  fair  stand-up  fight,  I  say  he  ain't  a  gentleman,  and 
deserves  to  be  trealed  as  such.  My  objection's  personal.  I 
don't  like  any  man  who  spoils  sport,  and  ne'er  a  rascally 
vulpeci'  spoils  sport  as  he  do,  since  he's  been  down  in 
our  parts  again.  I'll  take  another  brimmer,  Mrs. 
Boulby." 

"  To  be  sure  you  will,  Stephen,"  said  ]\Irs.  Boulby,  bending 
as  in  a  curtsey  to  the  glass  ;  and  so  soft  with  him  that  foolish 
fellows  thought  her  cowed  by  the  accusation  thrown  at  her 
favourite. 

"  There's  two  questions  about  they  valpecies.  Master 
Stephen,"  said  Farmer  Wainsby,  a  farmer  with  a  grievance, 
fixing  his  elbow  on  his  knee  for  serious  utterance.  "  There's 
to  ask,  and  t'  ask  again.  Sport,  I  grant  ye.  All  in  doo 
season.  But,"  he  performed  a  circle  with  his  pipe  stem, 
and  darted  it  as  from  the  centre  thereof  toward  Stej)hen's 
breast,  with  the  poser,  "  do  we  s'pport  thieves  at  public 
expense  for  them  to  keep  thievin' — black,  white,  or  brown — 
no  matter,  eh  ?  Well,  then,  if  the  public  want  bear  it,  dang 
me  if  I  can  see  why  individles   .shud  bear  it.      It  ent  no 


AN  ASSEMBLY  AT  THE  PILOT  INN.  141 

maimer  o'  reason,  net  as  I  can  see ;  let  gentlemen  Lave  their 
opinion,  or  let  'em  not.     Foxes  be  hanged !" 

Much  slow  winking  was  interchanged.  In  a  general 
sense,  Farmer  Wainsby's  remarks  were  held  to  be  un- 
English,  though  he  was  pardoned  for  them  as  one  having 
peculiar  interests  at  stake. 

"Ay,  ay!  we  know  all  about  that,"  said  Stephen,  taking 
succour  from  the  eyes  surrounding  him. 

"  And  so,  may  be,  do  we,"  said  Wainsby. 

"  Fox-hunting  '11  go  on  when  jour  great-grandfather '3 
your  youngest  son,  farmer;  or  t'  other  way." 

"  I  reckon  it  '11  be  a  stuffed  fox  yojir  chil'ern  '11  hunt,  Mr. 
Steeve  ;  more  straw  in  'em  than  bow'ls." 

"  If  the  country,"  Stephen  thumped  the  table,  "were  what 
you'd  make  of  it,  hang  me  if  my  name  'd  long  be  English- 
man ! 

"  Hear,  hear,  Steeve !"  was  shouted  in  support  of  the 
Conservative  principle  enunciated  by  him. 

"  What  I  say  is,  flesh  and  blood  afore  foxes !" 

Thus  did  Farmer  Wainsby  likewise  attempt  a  rallving- 
cry;  but  Stephen's  retort,  "Ain't  foxes  flesh  and  blood  :*" 
convicted  him  of  clumsiness,  and,  buoyed  on  the  uproar  of 
cheers,  Stephen  pursued,  "  They  are ;  to  kill  'em  in  cold 
blood's  beast-murder,  so  it  is.  What  do  we  do  ?  We  give 
'em  a  fair  field — a  fair  field  and  no  favour !  We  let  'em 
trust  to  the  instincts  Nature,  she's  given  'em  ;  and  don't  the 
old  woman  know  best  ?  If  they  can  get  away,  they  win  the 
day.  All's  open,  and  honest,  and  aboveboard.  Kill  your 
rats  and  kill  your  rabbits,  but  leave  foxes  to  your  betters. 
Foxes  are  gentlemen.  You  don't  understand  ?  Be  hanp-ed 
if  they  ain't  !  I  like  the  old  fox,  and  I  don't  like  to  see  him 
murdered  and  exterminated,  but  die  the  death  of  a  gentle- 
man, at  the  hands  of  gentlemen ." 

"  And  ladies,"  sneered  the  farmer. 

All  the  room  was  with  Stephen,  and  would  have  backed 
him  uproariously,  had  he  not  reached  his  sounding  period 
without  knowing  it,  and  thus  allowed  his  opponent  to  slip  in 
that  abominable  addition. 

"  Ay,  and  ladies,"  cried  the  huntsman,  keen  at  recovery. 
"  Why  shouldn't  they  ?  I  hate  a  field  without  a  woman  in 
it  i  don't  you  ?  and  you  ?   and  jou  ?     And  you,  too,  Mrs. 


142  EHODA  FLEMING. 

Boulby  ?  There  you  are,  and  tlie  room  looks  better  for  you 
• — don't  it,  lads  ?     Hurrah  !"' 

The  cheering  was  now  aroused,  and  Stephen  had  his  glass 
filled  again  in  triumph,  Avhilc  the  t'ai-mcr  meditated  tliickly 
over  the  ruin  of  his  argument  from  that  fatal  efYort  at 
fortifying  it  by  thi-owing  a  hint  to  the  discredit  of  the  sex, 
as  many  anol'Iier  man  has  meditated  before. 

"  Eh !  poor  old  IJob  !"  Stephen  sighed  and  sipped.  "  I 
can  cry  that  with  any  of  you.  It's  worse,  for  me  to  see 
than  for  vou  to  hear  of  him.  Wasn't  I  always  a  friend  f)f 
his,  and  said  he  was  worthy  to  be  a  gentleman,  many  a  time  ? 
He's  got  the  manners  of  a  gentleman  now  ;  ofTs  with  his  hat, 
if  there's  a  lady  present,  and  such  a  neat  way  of  speaking. 
But  there,  acting's  the  thing,  and  his  behaviour's  beastly 
bad  !  You  can't  call  it  no  other.  There's  two  Mr.  Blancovea 
tip  at  Fairly,  relations  of  Mrs.  Lovell's — whom  I'll  tako 
the  liberty  of  calling  My  Beauty,  and  no  offence  meant :  and 
it's  before  her  that  Bob  only  ye.stei'day  rode  up — one  of  the 
gentlemen  being  Mr.  Algernon,  free  of  hand  and  a  good  seat 
in  the  saddle,  t'other's  ]\Ir.  Edward  ;  but  Mr.  Algernon,  he's 
Robert  Eccles's  man — up  rides  Bob,  just  as  we  was  tying  Mr. 
Reenard's  brush  to  the  pommel  of  the  lady's  saddle,  down  in 
Ditley  Marsh  ;  and  he  bows  to  the  lady.  Says  he — but  he's 
mad,  stark  mad,!" 

Stephen  resumed  his  pipe  amid  a  din  of  disappointment 
that  made  the  walls  ring  and  the  glasses  leap. 

"  A  little  more  sugar,  Stephen  ?"  said  Mrs.  Boulby,  moving 
in  lightly  from  the  doorway. 

"  Thank  ye,  mum ;  you're  the  best  hostess  that  ever 
breathed." 

"So  she  be;  but  how  about  Bob?"  cried  her  guests — 
some  asking  whether  he  cai-ried  a  pistol  or  flourished  a 
stick. 

"  Ne'er  a  blessed  twig,  to  save  his  soul ;  and  there's  the 
madness  written  on  him,"  Stephen  roared  as  loud  as  any  of 
them.  "  And  me  to  see  him  riding  in  the  ring  there,  and 
knowing  what  the  gentleman  had  sworn  to  do  if  he  eamo 
aci'oss  the  hunt  ;  and  feeling  that  he  was  in  the  wrong ! 
I  haven't  got  a  oath  to  swear  how  mad  I  was.  Fancy  your- 
selves in  my  place.  I  love  old  Bob.  I've  drunk  with  him; 
I  owe  him  obligations  from  since  I  was  a  boy  up'ard  ;  1  don't 
know  a  butter  than  Bob  in  all  England.     And  there  he  was: 


AN  ASSEMBLY  AT  THE  PILOT  INN.  143 

and  says  to  ]\Ir.  Algernon,  '  You  know  what  I'm  come  for.' 
I  nev^er  did  behold  a  gentleman  so  pale-shot  all  over  his 
cheeks  as  he  was,  and  pinkish  under  the  eyes  ;  if  you've  ever 
noticed  a  chap  laid  hands  on  by  detectives  in  plain  clothes. 
Smack  at  Bob  went  Mr.  Edward's  whip." 

"  Mr.  Algernon's,"  Stephen  was  corrected. 

"  Mr  Edward's,  I  tell  ye — the  cousin.  And  right  across 
the  face.     My  Lord  !  it  made  my  blood  tingle." 

A  sound  like  the  swish  of  a  whip  expressed  the  sentiments 
of  that  assemblage  at  the  Pilot. 

"  Bob  swallowed  it  ?" 

"  What  else  could  he  do,  the  fool  ?  He  had  nothing  to 
help  him  but  his  hand.  Says  he.  That's  a  poor  way  of  trying 
to  stop  me.  My  business  is  with  this  gentleman  ;  and  Bob 
set  his  horse  at  Mr.  Algernon,  and  Mrs.  Lovell  rode  across 
him  with  her  hand  raised  ;  and  just  at  that  moment  up 
jogged  the  old  gentleman.  Squire  Blancove,  of  Wrexby:  and 
Robert  Eccles  says  to  him,  '  You  might  have  saved  your  son 
something  by  keeping  your  word.'  It  appears  according  to 
Bob,  that  the  squire  had  promised  to  see  his  son,  and  settle 
matters.  All  Mrs.  Lovell  could  do  was  hardly  enough  to 
hold  back  Mr.  Edward  from  laying  out  at  Bob.  He  was  like 
a  white  devil,  and  speaking  calm  and  polite  all  the  time. 
Says  Bob,  I'm  willing  to  take  one  when  I've  done  with  the 
other :  and  the  squire  began  talking  to  his  son,  Mrs.  Lovell  to 
Mr.  Edward,  and  the  rest  of  the  gentlemen  all  round  poor 
dear  old  Bob,  rather  bullying-like  for  my  blood ;  till  Bob 
couldn't  help  being  nettled,  and  cried  out,  Gentlemen,  I  hold 
him  in  my  power,  and  I'm  silent  so  long  as  there's  a  chance 
of  my  getting  him  to  behave  like  a  man  with  human  feelings. 
If  they'd  gone  at  him  then,  I  don't  think  I  could  have  let 
him  stand  alone  :  an  opinion's  one  thing,  but  blood's  another, 
and  I'm  distantly  related  to  Bob  ;  and  a  man  who's  always 
thinking  of  the  value  of  his  place,  he  ain't  worth  it.  But 
Mrs.  Lovell,  she  settled  the  case — a  lady,  Farmer  Wainsby, 
with  your  leave.  There's  the  good  of  having  a  lady  present 
on  the  field.     That's  due  to  a  lady !" 

"  Happen  she  was  at  the  bottom  of  it,"  the  farmer  returned 
Steplien's  nod  grumpily. 

"  How  did  it  end,  Stephen,  my  lad  ?"  said  Butcher  Billing, 
indicating  a  '  never  mind  him.^ 

"  It  ended,  my  boy,  it  ended  like  my  glass  here — hot  and 


144  EnODA  FLEMiyO. 

BtroTif^  sttiff,  with  sugar  at  the  bottom.  And  I  don't  sec  thia^ 
so  glad  as  I  saw  that,  my  word  of  honour  on  it !  Boys  all !" 
Sti'i)lii'n  (Irank  tho  drt'L;s. 

^Irs.  ]}i)ulby  was  still  in  attendance.  Tlie  talk  over  the 
circumstances  Avas  sweeter  than  tho  bare  facts,  and  the  reple- 
nished glass  cnaVilod  8to]>hen  to  add  tho  ]iicturesque  bits  of 
tho  affray,  unspurrcd  by  a  suirouiuling  eagerness  of  his  lis- 
teners— too  exciting  for  imaginative  effort.  In  particular, 
he  dwelt  on  Kobert's  dropping  the  reins  and  riding  with  hia 
heels  at  Algernon,  when  Mrs.  Lovell  put  her  horse  in  hia 
way,  and  the  pair  of  horses  rose  like  waves  at  sea,  and  both 
riders  showed  their  horsemanship,  and  Robert  an  adroit 
courtesy,  for  which  the  lady  thanked  him  with  a  bow  of  her 
head. 

"I  got  among  the  hounds,  pretending  to  pacify  them,  and 
call  'em  together,"  said  Stephen,  "  and  I  heard  her  say^ 
just  before  all  was  over,  and  he  turned  off — 1  heard  her  say: 
'Trust  this  to  me:  I  will  meet  you.'  I'll  swear  to  them 
exact  words,  though  there  was  more,  and  a  '  where '  in  the 
bargain,  and  that  I  didn't  hear.  Aha!  by  George!  thinka 
I,  old  Bob,  you're  a  lucky  beggar,  and  be  hanged  if  I  wouldn't 
go  mad  too  for  a  minute  or  so  of  short,  sweet,  private  talk 
with  a  lovely  young  widow  lady  as  ever  the  sua  did  shine 
upon  so  boldly — oho  ! 

You've  seen  a  yacht  npon  the  sea, 
She  diinces  ami  she  dunces,  O  1 
As  fair  is  my  wild  maid  to  mo  ...  , 

Something  annut  'prances,  0  !"  on  her  horse,  yon  know,  or 
you're  a  hera'd  fool  if  you  don't.  I  never  could  sing;  wish 
I  conld  !  It's  the  joy  of  life  I  It's  utterance!  Hey  for 
harmony !" 

•'Eh!  bray  vo !  now  you're  a  man,  Steeve!  and  welcomer 
and  welcome*"^ ;  yi — yi,  0!"  jolly  Butcher  Billing  sang  out 
sharp.  "  Life  wants  watering.  Here's  a  health  to  Robei't 
Eccles,  wheresoever  and  whatsoever !  and  ne'er  a  man  shall 
say  of  me  I  didn't  stick  by  a  friend  like  Bob.  Cheers,  my 
lads !" 

Robert's  health  was  drank  in  a  thunder,  and  praises  of 
the  purity  and  the  brandy  followed  the  grand  roar.  Mrs. 
Boulby  received  her  compliments  on  that  head. 

"'Pends  upon  the  tide,  Missis,  don't  it?"  one  remarked, 


AN  ASSEMBLY  AT  THE  PILOT  INJT.  145 

witli  a  grin  broad  enough  to  make  the  slyness  written  on  it 
easy  i-eading. 

"  Ah  !  first  a  flow  and  then  a  ebb,"  said  another. 

**  It's  many  a  keg  I  plant  i'  the  mud, 
Coastguardsman,  come  !  and  I'll  have  your  blood  I" 

Instigation  cried,  "Cut  along;"  but  the  defiant  smuggler 
was  deficient  in  memory,  and  like  Steeve  Bilton,  was  reduced 
to  scatter  his  concluding  rhymes  in  prose,  as  '  something 
about;'  whereat  jolly  Butcher  Billing,  a  reader  of  song- 
books  from  a  literary  delight  in  their  contents,  scraped  his 
head,  and  then,  as  if  he  had  touched  a  spring,  carolled: 

"  In  spite  of  all  you  Gov'ment  pack, 
I'll  land  my  kegs  of  the  good  CognyAC  " — 

"  though,"  he  took  occasion  to  observe  when  the  chorus  and  a 
sort  of  cracker  of  irrelevant  rhymes  had  ceased  to  explode ; 
"  I'm  for  none  of  them  games.  Honesty! — there's  the  sugar 
o'  my  grog." 

"  Ay,  but  you  like  to  be  cock-sure  of  the  stuff  you  drink, 
if  e'er  a  man  did."  said  the  boatbuilder,  whose  eye  blazed 
yellow  in  this  frothing  season  of  song  and  fan. 

"  Right  so.  Will  Moody !"  returned  the  jolly  butcher : 
"  which  means — not  wrong  this  time  !" 

"  Then,  what's  understood  by  your  sticking  prongs  into 
your  hostess  here  concerning  of  her  brandy  ?  Here  it  is 
— which  is  enough,  except  for  discontented  fellows." 

"  Eh,  Missus  ?"  the  jolly  butcher  appealed  to  her,  and 
pointed  at  Moody's  complexion  for  proof. 

It  was  quite  a  fiction  that  kegs  of  the  good  cognac  were 
sown  at  low  water,  and  reaped  at  high,  near  the  river-gate  of 
the  old  Pilot  inn  garden;  but  it  was  greatly  to  Mrs.  Boulby's 
interest  to  encourage  the  delusion  which  imaged  her  brandy 
thus  arising  straight  from  the  very  source,  without  villanous 
contact  with  excisemen  and  corrupting*  dealers  ;  and  as,  per- 
haps, in  her  husband's  time,  the  thing  had  happened,  and 
still  did,  at  rare  intervals,  she  complacently  gathered  the 
profitable  fame  of  her  brandy  being  the  best  in  the  district. 

"  I'm  sure  I  hope  you're  satisfied,  Mr.  Billing,"  she  said. 

The  jolly  butcher  asked  whether  Will  Moody  was  satisfied, 
and  Mr.  William  Moody  declaring  himself  thoroughly  satis- 


146  EHODA  FLEMING. 

Bed,  "  then  I'm  sntisfiod  too !"  said  the  jolly  butcher ;  upon 
which  tho  boathuildcT  heightened  the  langh  bj  sayinfi;'  he 
was  not  satisfied  at  all ;  and  to  escape  from  the  execrations 
of  the  niJijoiit y,  ])lea<k'd  that  it  was  because  his  glass  was 
eni])ty  :  tliiis  making  his  peace  with  them.  Every  glass  in 
the  room  was  filled  again. 

The  young  fellows  now  loosened  tongue ;  and  Dick  Curtis, 
the  promising  cricketer  of  Ilani])shire,  cried,  "  Mr.  bloody, 
my  hearty  !  that's  your  fourth  glass,  so  don't  quarrel  with 
me,  now  !" 

"  You  !"  Moody  tired  up  in  a  bilious  frenzy,  and  called  him 
a  this  and  that  and  t'other  young  vagabond;  for  which  the 
company,  feeling  the  ominous  truth  contained  in  Dick  Curtis'a 
remark  more  than  its  impertinence,  fined  ^Ir.  Cloudy  in  a 
song.     He  gave  the — 

"  So  niany  yoniifr  Ciiptsiins  have  walked  o'er  my  jiate, 
It's  no  woiicinr  you  see  nie  quite  bald,  sir," 

with  emphatic  bitterness,  and  the  company  thanked  him. 
Seeing  him  stand  up  as  to  depart,  however,  a  storm  of  con- 
tempt was  hurled  at  him  ;  some  said  he  Avas  like  old  Sedgett, 
and  was  afraid  of  his  wife;  and  some,  that  he  was  like  .Xic 
Sedgett,  and  drank  blue. 

"  You're  a  bag  of  blue  devils,  oh  dear  I  oh  dear  !" 

sang  Dick  to  the  tune  of  "  The  Camnbclls  are  coming." 

"  1  ask  e'er  a  man  present,"  ]Mr.  Moody  put  out  his  fist, 
"is  that  to  be  born-^  ?  Didn't  you,"  he  addressed  Dick 
Ciu'tis,  "  didn't  you  sing  into  my  chorus — 

'  It's  no  wonder  to  hear  how  you  squall'd,  sir  ?' 

You  did !" 

"  Don't  he," — Dick  addressed  the  company, — "  make  Mrs. 
Boulby's  brandy  look  ashamed  of  itself  in  his  face  ?  1  ask 
e'er  a  gentleman  present." 

Accusation  and  retort  were  interchanged,  in  the  course  of 
wdiich,  Dick  called  Mr.  Moody  Nic  Sedgett's  friend ;  and  a 
sort  of  criminal  iiujuiry  was  held.  It  was  proved  that  Moody 
had  been  seen  with  Xic  Sedgett ;  and  then  three  or  four  began 
to  say  that  Nic  Sedgett  was  thick  with  some  of  the  gentle- 


ROBERT  SMITTEN  LOW.  147 

men  tip  at  Fairly ; — just  like  his  luck !  Stephen  let  it  be 
known  that  he  could  confirm  this  fact ;  he  having  seen  Mr. 
Algernon  Blancove  stop  Nic  on  the  road  and  talk  to  him. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  butcher  Billing,  "there's  mischief  in 
a  state  of  fermentation.  Did  ever  anybody  see  Nic  and  the 
devil  together  ?" 

"I  saw  Nic  and  Mr.  Moody  together,"  said  Dick  Curtis. 
"  Well,  I'm  only  stating  a  fact,"  he  exclaimed,  as  Moody  rose, 
apparently  to  commence  an  engagement,  for  which  the  com- 
]iany  quietly  prepared,  by  putting  chairs  out  of  hia  way : 
but  the  recreant  took  his  advantage  from  the  error,  and  got 
away  to  the  door,  pursued. 

"  Here's  an  example  of  what  we  lose  inhaving  no  President," 
sighed  the  jolly  butcher.  "  There  never  was  a  man  built  for 
the  chair  like  Bob  Eccles  I  say !  Our  evening's  broke  up, 
and  I,  for  one,  'd  ha'  made  it  morning.  Hark,  outside ;  By 
Gearge  !  they're  snowballing." 

An  adjournment  to  the  front  door  brought  them  in  view 
of  a  white  and  silent  earth  under  keen  stars,  and  Dick  Curtis 
and  the  bilious  boatbuilder,  foot  to  foot,  i^nowball  in  hand. 
A  bout  of  the  smart  exercise  made  Mr.  Moody  laugh  again^ 
and  all  parted  merrily,  delivering  final  shots  as  they  went 
their  several  ways. 

"  Thanks  be  to  heaven  for  snowing,"  said  Mrs.  Boulby  ; 
"  or  when  I  should  have  got  to  my  bed,  Goodness  only  can 
tell  I"     With  which,  she  closed  the  door  upon  the  empty  inn. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ROBERT    SMITTEN    LOW. 


The  night  -was,  warm  with  the  new-fallen  snow,  though 
the  stars  sparkled  coldly.  A  fleet  of  South-westerly  rain- 
clouds  had  been  met  in  mid-sky  by  a  sharp  puff  from  due 
North,  and  the  moisture  had  descended  like  a  woven  shroud, 
covering  all  the  land,  the  house-tops,  and  the  trees. 

Toung  Harry  Boulby  was  at  sea,  and  this  still  weather 
was  just  what  a  mother's  heart  wished  for  him.  The  widow 
looked  through  her  bed-room  window  and  listened,  as  if  the 

l2 


148  RHODA  FLEMING. 

absolute  stillness  must  becfct  a  sudden  cry.  The  tlioucflit  of 
her  l-oy  made  her  heart  revert  to  Kol^ei-t.  She  was  thinkiiif^ 
of  Robert  when  the  muiHed  sound  ot"  a  horse  at  speed  caused 
her  to  look  u])  the  street,  and  she  saw  one  comini^ — a  horse 
without  a  rider.     Tlie  next  minute  lie  was  out  ot"  sipfht. 

Mrs,  Bonlby  stood  teirified.  The  silence  of  the  night 
hanging  evei-ywhere  seemed  to  call  on  her  for  proof  that  she 
had  belield  a  real  earthly  spectacle,  and  the  dead  thump  of  the 
hooves  on  the  snow-floor  in  passing  struck  a  chill  through  her 
as  being  phantom-like.  But  she  had  seen  a  saddle  on  the 
horse,  and  the  stirrups  flying,  and  the  horse  looked  affrighted. 
The  scene  was  too  earthly  in  its  suggestion  of  a  tale  of 
blood.  What  if  the  horse  were  Robert's  ?  She  tried  to 
laugh  at  her  womanly  fearfulness,  and  had  almost  to  sup- 
press a  scream  in  doing  so.  There  was  no  help  for  it  but  to 
believe  her  brandy  as  good  and  elHcacious  as  her  guests  did, 
so  she  went  downstairs  and  took  a  fortifying  draught;  after 
which  her  blood  travelled  faster,  and  the  event  galloped 
swiftly  into  the  recesses  of  time,  and  she  slept. 

While  the  morning  was  still  black,  and  the  streets  with- 
out a  sign  of  life,  she  was  aroused  by  a  dream  of  some  one 
knocking  at  her  grave-stone.  "  Ah,  that  brandy !"  she 
sighed.  "  This  is  what  a  poor  w^oman  has  to  pay  for  cus- 
tom !"  Which  we  may  intei'pret  as  the  remorseful  morning 
confession  of  a  guilt  she  had  been  the  victim  of  over  night. 
She  knew  that  good  brandy  did  not  give  bad  dreams,  and 
was  self-convicted.  Strange  were  her  sensations  when  the 
knocking  continued ;  and  presently  she  heard  a  voice  in  the 
naked  street  below  call  in  a  moan,  "  j\lother !" 

"  My  darling  !"  she  answered,  divided  in  her  guess  at  its 
being  Harry  or  Robert. 

A  glance  from  the  open  window  showed  Robert  leaning  in 
the  quaint  old  porch,  with  his  head  bound  by  a  handker- 
chief ;  but  he  had  no  strength  to  reply  to  a  question  at  that 
distance,  and  when  she  let  him  in  he  made  two  steps  and 
dropped  forward  on  the  floor. 

Lying  there,  he  plucked  at  her  skirts.  She  was  shouting 
for  help,  but  with  her  ready  apprehension  of  the  pride  in 
his  character,  she  knew  what  was  meant  by  his  broken 
whisper  before  she  put  her  ear  to  his  lips,  and  she  was 
silent,  miseiable  sight  as  Avas  his  feeble  efforts  to  rise  on  an 
elbow  that  would  not  straighten. 


ROBERT  SMITTEN  LOW.  ]49 

His  head  was  streaming'  with  blood,  and  the  stain  was  on 
his  neck  and  chest.  He  had  one  helpless  arm ;  his  clothes 
were  torn  as  from  a  fierce  struggle. 

"  I'm  quite  sensible,"  he  kept  repeating,  lest  she  should 
relapse  into  screams. 

"  Lord  love  you  for  your  spirit !"  exclaimed  the  widow, 
and  there  they  remained,  he  like  a  winged  eagle,  striving  to 
raise  himself  from  time  to  time,  and  fighting  with  his 
desperate  weakness.  His  face  was  to  the  ground  ;  after  a 
while  he  was  still.  In  alarm  the  widow  stooped  over  him  : 
she  feared  that  he  had  given  up  his  last  breath ;  but  the 
candle-light  showed  him  shaken  by  a  sob,  as  it  seemed  to 
her,  though  she  could  scarce  believe  it  of  this  manly  fellow. 
Yet  it  proved  true;  she  saw  the  very  tears.  He  was  crying 
at  his  helplessness. 

"  Oh,  my  darling  boy  !"  she  burst  out ;  "  what  have  they 
done  to  ye?  the  cowards  they  are !  but  do  now  have  pity  on 
a  woman,  and  let  me  get  some  creature  to  lift  you  to  a  bed, 
dear.  And  don't  flap  at  me  with  your  hand  like  a  bird 
that's  shot.  You're  quite,  quite  sensible,  I  know ;  quite 
sensible,  dear ;  but  for  my  sake,  Robert,  my  Harry's  good 
friend,  only  for  my  sake,  let  yourself  be  a  carried  to  a  clean, 
nice  bed,  till  I  get  Dr.  Bean  to  you.     Do,  do." 

Her  entreaties  brousfht  on  a  succession  of  the  efforts  to 
rise,  and  at  last,  getting  round  on  his  back,  and  being 
assisted  by  the  widow,  he  sat  up  against  the  wall.  The 
change  of  posture  stupified  him  with  a  dizziness.  He  tried  to 
utter  the  old  phrase,  that  he  was  sensible,  but  his  hand  beat 
at  his  forehead  before  the  words  could  be  shaped. 

"  What  pride  is,  when  it's  a  man  !"  the  widow  thought,  as 
he  recommenced  the  grievous  struggle  to  rise  on  his  feet ; 
now  feeling  them  up  to  the  knee  with  a  questioning  hand, 
and  pausing  as  if  in  a  reflective  wonder,  and  then  planting 
them  for  a  spring  that  failed  wretchedly  ;  groaning  and 
leaning  backward,  lost  in  a  fit  of  despair,  and  again  begin- 
ning, patient  as  an  insect  imprisoned  in  a  circle. 

The  widow  bore  with  his  man's  pride,  until  her  nerves 
became  afflicted  by  the  character  of  his  movements,  which, 
as  her  sensations  conceived  them,  were  like  those  of  a  dry 
door  jarring  loose.  She  caught  him  in  her  arms  :  "  It's  let 
my  back  break,  but  you  shan't  fret  to  death  there,  under 
my  eyes,  proud  or  humble,  poor  dear,"  she  said,  and  with  a 


150  RnoBA  FLEMma. 

great  poll  she  got  him  upright.  ITe  fell  across  her  shoulder 
with  so  stiff  a  groan  that  for  a  moment  she  thought  she  had 
done  him  mi)ital  injury. 

"  Good  old  niothfr,"  he  said  boyishly,  to  reassure  her. 

"Yes;  and  you'll  behave  to  me  like  a  son,"  she  coaxed 
him. 

They  talked  as  by  slow  degrees  the  stairs  were  ascended. 

"  A  crack  o'  the  head,  mother — a  crack  o'  the  head," 
said  he. 

"  Was  it  the  horse,  my  dear  ?" 

"  A  crack  o'  the  head,  mother." 

"  "What  have  they  done  to  my  boy  Robert  ?" 

"They've," — he  swung  about  humorously,  weak  as  he  was 
and  throbbing  with  pain — "  they've  let  out  some  of  your 
brandy,  mother  ....  got  into  my  head." 

"  AVho've  done  it,  ray  dear  ?" 

"  TheyS-e  done  it,  mother." 

"  Oh,  take  care  o'  that  nail  at  your  font ;  and  oh,  that 
beam  to  your  poor  poll — poor  soul !  he's  been  and  hurt  him- 
self ai^ain. — And  did  thev  do  it  to  him  ?  and  what  was  it 
for  ?"  she  resumed  in  soft  cajolery. 

"  They  did  it,  because " 

"  Yes,  my  dear;  the  i-eason  for  it  ?" 

"  Because,  mother,  they  had  a  turn  that  way." 

"  Thanks  be  to  Above  for  leaving  yoar  cunning  in  you, 
my  dear,"  said  the  baiHed  woman,  with  sincere  admiration. 
"  And  Lord  be  thunked,  if  you'i-e  not  hurt  bad,  that  they 
haven't  spoilt  his  handsome  face,"  she  added. 

"  In  the  bedroom,  he  let  her  partially  undress  him,  refusing 
all  doctor's  aid,  and  commanding  her  to  make  no  noise  about 
him  ;  and  then  he  lay  (h)wn  and  shut  his  eyes,  for  the  pain 
was  terrible — galloped  him  and  threw  him  with  a  shock — 
and  galloped  him  and  threw  him  again,  wluMiever  his 
thoughts  got  free  for  a  moment  fi'om  the  dizzy  aching. 

"  My  deal',"  she  wdiispered,  "  I'm  going  to  get  a  little 
brandy." 

(She  hastened  away  upon  this  mission. 

He  was  in  the  same  postui-e  when  she  i-etumed  with  bottle 
and  glass. 

She  poured  out  sojue,  and  made  much  of  it  as  a  specific, 
and  of  th«  great  things  bi'andy  would  do ;  but  he  motioned 


ROBERT  SMITTEN  LOW.  151 

his  hand  from  it  feebly,  till  slie  reproached  him  tenderly  as 
perverse  and  unkind. 

"  Now,  my  dearest  boy,  for  my  sake — only  for  my  sake. 
Will  you  ?     Yes,  you  will,  my  Robert  1" 

"  No  brandy,  mother." 

"  Only  one  small  thimbleful  ?" 

"  No  more  brandy  for  me  !" 

"  See,  dear,  how  seriously  you  take  it,  and  all  because  you 
want  the  comfort." 

"  No  brandy,"  was  all  he  could  say. 

She  looked  at  the  label  on  the  bottle.  Alas !  she  knew 
whence  it  came,  and  what  its  quality.  She  could  cheat  her- 
self about  it  when  herself  only  was  concerned — but  she 
wavered  at  the  thought  of  forcing  it  upon  Robert  as  trusty 
medicine,  though  it  had  a  pleasant  taste,  and  was  really,  as 
she  conceived,  good  enough  for  customers. 

She  tried  him  faintly  with  arguments  in  its  favour ;  but 
his  resolution  was  manifested  by  a  deaf  ear. 

With  a  perfect  faith  in  it  she  would,  and  she  was  conscious 
that  she  could,  have  raised  his  head  and  poured  it  down  his 
throat.  The  crucial  test  of  her  love  for  Robert  forbade  the 
attempt.     She  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  crying*. 

"  Halloa !  mother,"  said  Robert,  opening  his  eyes  to  the 
sad  candlelisflit  surroundins:  them. 

"  My  darling  boy  !  whom  I  do  love  so  ;  and  not  to  be  able 
to  help  you !     What  shall  I  do — what  shall  I  do !" 

With  a  start,  he  cried,  "  Where's  the  horse  ?" 

"  The  horse  ?" 

"  The  old  dad  '11  be  asking  for  the  horse  to-morrow.** 

"  I  saw  a  horse,  my  dear,  afore  I  turned  to  my  prayers  at 
my  bedside,  coming  down  the  street  without  his  rider.  He 
came  like  a  rumble  of  deafness  in  my  ears.  Oh,  my  boy,  I 
thought,  Is  it  Robert's  horse  ? — knowing  you've  got  enemies, 
as  there's  no  brave  man  has  not  got  'em — which  is  our  only 
hope  in  the  Grod  of  heaven  !" 

"  Mother,  punch  my  ribs." 

He  stretched  himself  flat  for  the  operation,  and  shut  his 
mouth. 

"  Hard,  mother  ! — and  quick  ! — I  can't  hold  out  long." 

"  Oh  !  Robei't,"  moaned  the  petrified  woman — "  strike 
you  ?" 

"  Straight  in  the  ribs.     Shut  your  fist  and  do  it — quick." 


152  EHODA  FLEMING. 


*'  'My  dear ! — my  boy  ! — T  haven't  the  heart  to  do  it !" 

"  Ah !"  Kol)(.'it's  clic'st  dr()])jn'd  in ;  but  tightening  his 
muscles  again,  he  said,  "now  do  it — do  it!" 

"  Oh  !  a  ])oke  at  a  poor  lire  puts  it  out,  dear.  And  make 
a  murderess  of  me,  you  call  motlier!  Oh!  as  I  love  the 
name,  I'll  obey  ycu,  Robert.     But! there  1" 

"  J  larder,  mother." 

"  I'liere  ! — goodness  forgive  me  !" 

"  }lard  as  you  can — all's  i-iglit." 

"  There  ! — and  there  ! — oh  ! — mercy  !'* 

"  Press  in  at  my  stomach." 

She  nerved  herself  to  do  his  bidding,  and,  following  his 
ordei-s,  took  his  head  in  her  hands  and  felt  about  it.  Tho 
anguish  of  the  touch  wrung  a  stilled  scream  from  him,  at 
which  she  screamed  responsive.  He  laughed,  while  twisting 
with  the  pain. 

"  You  cruel  boy,  to  laugh  at  your  mother,"  she  said, 
delighted  by  the  sound  of  safety  in  that  sweet  human 
laughter.  "  Hey !  don't  ye  shake  your  brain;  it  ought  to 
lie  quiet.  And  here's  the  spot  of  the  wicked  blow — and  him 
in  love — as  I  know  he  is !  What  would  she  say  if  she  saw 
him  now  ?  But  an  old  woman's  the  best  nurse — ne'er  a 
doubt  of  it." 

She  felt  him  heavy  on  her  arm,  and  knew  that  he  had 
fainted.  Quelling  her  first  impulse  to  scream,  she  dropped 
him  gently  on  the  pillow,  and  rapped  to  rouse  up  her  maid. 

The  two  soon  produced  a  fii-e  and  hot  water,  bandages, 
vinegar  in  a  basin,  and  every  crude  appliance  that  could  be 
thought  of,  the  maitl  followed  her  mistress's  directions  with 
a  consoling  awe,  for  Mrs.  Boulby  had  told  her  no  more  than 
that  a  man  was  hurt. 

"  I  do  hope,  if  it's  anybody,  it's  that  ther'  Moody,"  said 
the  maid. 

"  A  pretty  sort  of  a  Christian  you  think  yourself,  I  dare 
say,"  Mrs.  Boulby  replied. 

"  Christian  or  not,  one  can't  help  longin'  for  a  choice, 
mum.     We  ain't  all  hands  and  knees." 

"  Better  for  you  if  you  was,"  said  the  widow.  *'  It's 
tongues,  you're  to  remember,  you're  not  to  be.  Now  come 
you  up  after  me — and  you'll  not  utter  a  word.  You'll  stand 
behind  tlie  door  to  do  what  I  tell  you.  You're  a  soldier's 
daughter,  Susan,  and  haven't  a  claim  to  be  excitable." 


EOBEET  SMITTEN  LOW.  J53 

"  My  mother  was  given  to  faints,"  Snsan  protested  on 
behaii  of  her  possible  -weakness. 

"  You  may  peep."  Thus  Mrs.  Boulby  tossed  a  sop  to  her 
frail  woman's  nature. 

But  for  her  having  been  appeased  by  the  sagacious  accord- 
ance of  this  privilege,  the  maid  would  never  have  endured  to 
hear  Robert's  voice  in  agony,  and  to  think  that  it  was  really 
Robert,  the  beloved  of  Warbeach,  who  had  come  to  harm. 
Her  apprehensions  not  being  so  lively  as  her  mistress's,  by 
reason  of  her  love  being  smaller,  she  was  more  terrified  than 
comforted  by  Robert's  jokes  during  the  pro:!ess  of  washing 
oif  the  blood,  cutting  the  hair  from  the  wound,  bandaging 
and  binding  up  the  head. 

His  levity  seemed  ghastly;  and  his  refusal  upon  any  per- 
suasion  to  see  a  doctor  quite  heathenish,  and  a  sign  of  one 
foredoomed. 

She  believed  that  his  arm  was  broken,  and  smarted  with 
wrath  at  her  mistress  for  so  easily  taking  his  word  to  the 
contrary.  More  than  all,  his  abjuration  of  brandy  now  when 
it  would  do  him  good  to  take  it,  struck  her  as  an  instance  of 
that  masculine  insanity  in  the  comprehension  of  which  all 
women  must  learn  to  fortify  themselves.  There  was  much 
whispering  in  the  room,  inarticulate  to  her,  before  Mrs. 
Boulby  came  out,  enjoining  a  rigorous  silence,  and  stating 
that  the  patient  would  drink  nothing  but  tea. 

"  He  begged,"  she  said  half  to  herself,  "  to  have  the 
window  blinds  up  in  the  morning,  if  the  sun  wasn't  strong, 
for  him  to  look  on  our  river  opening  down  to  the  ships." 

"  That  looks  as  if  he  meant  to  live,"  Susan  remarked. 

"  He!"  cried  the  widow;  "it's  Robert  Eccles.  He'd  stand 
on  his  last  inch." 

"  Would  he,  now !"  ejaculated  Susan,  marvelling  at  him, 
with  no  question  as  to  what  footing  that  might  be. 

"  Leastways,"  the  widow  hastened  to  add,  "  if  he  thought 
it  was  only  devils  against  him.  I've  heard  him  say,  '  It's  a 
fool  that  holds  out  against  God,  and  a  coward  as  gives  in  to 
the  devil ;'  and  there's  my  Robert  painted  by  his  own  hand." 

"  But  don't  that  bring  him  to  this  so  often,  Mum  ?"  Susan 
ruefully  inquired,  joining  tea-pot  and  kettle. 

"  I  do  believe  he's  protected,"  said  the  widow. 

With  the  first  morning  light  Mrs.  Boulby  was  down  at 
Warbeach  Farm,  and  being  directed  to  Farmer  Eccles  in  the 


154  RHODA  FLEMING. 

staliles,  she   found  the  sturdy  yeoman  himself  engaged  in 
grooming  Robert's  horse. 

"  Well,  jMissis,"  he  said,  nodding  toher;  "you  win,  you  see. 
I  thought  you  would;  I'd  have  sworn  you  would.  Brandy's 
stronger  than  blood,  with  some  of  our  young  fellows." 

"If  you  please,  Mr  Eccles,"  she  replied,  "Robert's  sending 
of  me  was  to  know  if  the  horse  was  unhurt  and  safe." 

"  \V(jn"t  his  legs  carry  liim  yet.  Missis  ?  " 

"His  legs  have  been  graciously  spared,  Mr.  Eccles;  it's 
bis  hoa.l." 

"  That's  where  the  liquor  flics,  I'm  told." 

"Pray,  Mr.  Eccles,  believe  me  when  I  declare  he  hasn't 
touched  a  drop  of  anything  but  tea  in  my  house  this  past 
night." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  that ;  I'd  rather  have  him  go  to  yon.  If  he 
takes  it,  let  him  take  it  good;  and  I'm  given  to  understand  that 
you've  a  re]mtation  that  way.  Just  tell  him  from  me,  he's  at 
liberty  to  play  the  devil  with  himself,  but  not  with  my  beasts." 

The  farmer  continued  his  labour. 

"  No,  you  ain't  a  hard  inan,  surely,"  cried  the  widow. 
"Not  when  I  say  he  was  sober,  ^Ir.  Eccles  ;  and  was  thrown, 
and  made  insensible  ?" 

"Never  knew  such  a  thing  to  happen  to  him,  Missis,  and, 
what's  more,  I  don't  believe  it.  JMayhap  you're  come  for  hia 
things:  his  Aunt  Anne's  indoors,  and  she'll  give  'em  up  and 
gladly.  And  my  compliments  to  Robert,  and  the  next  time 
he  fancies  visiting  AVarbeach,  hod  best  forward  a  letter  to 
that  cllcct." 

Mrs.  Boulby  curtseyed  humbly.  "  You  think  bad  of  me,  sir, 
for  keej)ing  a  public  ;  but  I  love  your  son  as  my  own,  and  if  I 
might  jnesunie  to  say  so,  Mr.  Eccles,  you  will  be  proud  of 
him  too  before  you  die.  I  know  no  more  than  you  how  he 
fell  yesterday,  but  I  do  know  he'd  not  been  drinking,  and 
have  got  bitter  bad  enemies." 

"  And  that's  not  astonishing.  Missis." 

"  No,  Mr.  Eccles  ;  and  a  man  who's  brave  besides  being 
good  soon  learns  that." 

"  Well  spoken,  :Missis." 

"  Is  Robert  to  hear  he's  denied  his  father's  house?" 

"  I  never  said  that,  Mrs.  Boulby.  Here's  my  principle  :— 
My  house  is  open  to  my  blood,  so  long  as  he  don't  bring  down- 
right  disgrace  on  it,  and  then  anyone  may  claim  him  that 


ROBERT  STtflTTEfT  LOW.  155 

Ii'keg.  I  TTon't  give  him  money,  because  I  know  of  a  better 
use  for  it ;  and  he  shan't  ride  ray  beasts,  because  he  doa't 
know  how  to  treat  'em.     That's  all." 

"And  so  you  keep  within  the  line  of  your  duty,  sir,"  the 
widow  summed  his  speech. 

"  So  I  hope  to."  said  the  farmer. 

"  There's  comfort  in  that,"  she  replied. 

"  As  much  as  there's  needed,"  said  he. 

The  widow  curtseyed  again.  "  It's  not  to  trouble  yon,  sir, 
I  called.  Robert — thanks  be  to  Above  ! — is  not  hurt  serious, 
though  severe." 

"Where's  he  hurt  ?"  the  farmer  asked  rather  hurriedly. 

"  In  the  head,  it  is." 

*'  What  have  vou  come  for  ?" 

«'  First,  his  best  hat." 

"  Bless  my  soul !"  exclaimed  thp  farmer.  "Well,  if  that'll 
mend  his  head  it's  at  his  service,  I'm  sure." 

Sick  at  his  heartlessness,  the  widow  scattered  emphasis 
over  her  concluding  remarks.  "  First,  his  best  hat,  he  wants  ; 
and  his  coat  and  clean  shirt;  and  they  mend  the  looks  of  a 
man,  Mr.  Eccles  ;  and  it's  to  look  well  is  his  object :  for  he's 
not  one  to  make  a  moan  of  himself,  and  doctors  may  starve 
before  he'd  go  to  any  of  them.  And  my  begging  prayer  to 
you  is,  that  when  you  see  your  son,  you'll  not  tell  him  I  let 
you  know  his  head  or  any  part  of  him  was  hurt.  I  wish  yoa 
good  morning,  Mr.  Eccles." 

"  Good  morning  to  you,  Mrs.  Boulby.  You're  a  respectable 
woman." 

"  Xot  to  be  soaped,"  she  murmured  to  herself  in  a  heat. 

The  apparently  medicinal  articles  of  attire  were  obtained 
from  Aunt  Anne,  without  a  word  of  speech  on  the  part  oB 
that  pale  spinster.  The  deferential  hostility  between  the 
two  women  acknowledged  an  intervening  chasm.  Aunt  Anne 
produced  a  bundle,  and  placed  the  hat  on  it,  upon  which  she 
had  neatly  pinned  a  tract,  "  The  Drunkard's  Awakening  !" 
Mrs.  Boulby  glanced  her  eye  in  wrath  across  this  superscrip- 
tion, thinking  to  herself,  "  Oh,  you  good  people  !  how  you 
make  us  long  in  our  hearts  for  trouble  with  you."  She  con- 
trolled the  impulse,  and  mollified  her  spirit  on  her  way  h<jme 
by  distributing  stray  leaves  of  the  tract  to  the  outlying  heaps 
of  rubbish,  and  to  one  inquisitive  pig,  who  was  looking  up  from 
a  badly-smelling  sty  for  what  the  heavens  might  send  him. 


156  EHOnA  FLKMIXG. 

She  found  RoLeil  with  his  arm  doul)lecl  over  a  basin,  and 
Susan  spoDi^iny  cold  water  on  it. 

"  No  bones  broken,  mother'"  he  sang  out.  "I'm  sound; 
all  right  attain.  Six  hours  have  done  it  tliis  time.  Is  it  a 
thaw  y  You  needn't  tell  me  what  the  old  dad  has  been 
saying.     I  shall  be  ready  to  breakfast  in  half  an  hour." 

"Lord,  what  a  big  arm  it  is!"  exclaimed  the  widow. 
"And  no  wonder,  or  how  would  you  be  a  terror  to  men? 
You  naughty  boy,  to  think  of  stirring!     Here  you'll  lie." 

"Ah,  will  I  ?"  said  Robert:  and  he  gave  a  sprino',  and  sat 
upright  in  the  bed,  rather  white  with  the  ell'ort,  which  seemed 
to  all'ect  his  mind,  for  he  asked,  dubiously,  "  What  do  1  look 
like,  mother  ?" 

She  brought  him  the  looking-glass,  and  Susau  being  di.s- 
missed,  he  examined  his  features. 

"Dear!"  said  the  widow,  sitting  down  on  the  bed;  "it 
ain't  mucli  for  me  to  guess  you've  got  an  appointment." 

"  At  twelve  o'clock,  mother." 

"  With  her  ?"  she  uttered  softly. 

"  It's  with  a  lady,  mother." 

"And  so  many  enemies  prowling  about,  Robert,  luy  dear! 
Don't  tell  me  they  didn't  fall  upon  you  last  night.  1  said 
nothing,  but  I'd  swear  it  on  the  Book.  Do  you  think  you 
can  go  ?" 

"  Why,  mother,  I  go  by  my  feelings,  and  thei-e's  no  need 
to  think  at  all,  or  God  knows  what  1  should  think." 

The  widow  shook  her  head.  Nothing  '11  stop  you,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"  Nothing  inside  of  me  will,  mother." 

"Doesn't  she but  never  mind.     I've  no  right  to  ask, 

Robert ;  and  if  I  have  curiosity,  it's  about  last  night,  and 
•why  you  should  let  villains  escape,  liut  there's  no  accounting 
for  a  man's  notions;  only,  this  I  say,  and  1  do  say  it,  Nic 
Sedgett,  he's  at  the  bottom  of  any  mischief  brewed  against 
you  down  here.  And  last  night  Stephen  Jiilton.  or  somebody, 
declared  that  Nic  Sedgett  had  been  seen  up  at  Fairly." 

"  Selling  eggs,  mother.  Why  shouldn't  he  ?  We  mustn't 
complain  of  his  getting  an  honest  livelihood." 

"  He's  black-blooded,  Robert ;  and  T  never  can  understand 
why  the  Lord  did  not  make  him  a  beast  in  face.  I'm  tohi 
that  ci-eature's  found  pleasing  by  the  girls." 

*'  Ugh,  mother,  I'm  nob.*" 


ROBERT  SMITTEN  LOW.  157 

**  Slie  won't  tave  you,  Robert  ?" 

He  laughed.     "  "NVe  shall  see  to-day." 

"You  deceiving  boy!"  cried  the  widow;  "and  me  not 
know  it's  Mrs.  Lovell  you're  going  to  meet!  and  would  to 
heaven  she'd  see  the  worth  of  ye,  for  it's  a  born  lady  you 
ought  to  marry." 

"  Just  feel  in  my  pockets,  mother,  and  you  won't  be  so 
ready  with  your  talk  of  my  marrying.  And  now  I'll  get  up. 
I  feel  as  if  my  legs  had  to  learn  over  again  how  to  bear  me. 
The  old  dad,  bless  his  heart !  srave  me  sound  wind  and  limb 
to  begin  upon,  so  I'm  not  easily  stumped,  you  see,  though 
I've  been  near  on  it  once  or  twice  in  my  life." 

Mrs.  Boulby  murmured,  "Ah  !  are  you  still  going  to  be  at 
war  with  those  gentlemen,  Robert  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily,  while  a  shrewd  smile  wrought 
over  his  face,  and  then  taking  her  hand,  he  said,  "  I'll  tell 
you  a  little;  you  deserve  it,  and  won't  tattle.  My  carse  is, 
I'm  ashamed  to  talk  about  my  feelings  ;  but  there  s  no  shame 
in  being  fond  of  a  girl,  even  if  she  refuses  to  have  anvthing 
to  say  to  you,  is  there?  K"o,  there  isn't.  I  went  with  my 
dear  old  aunt's  money  to  a  farmer  in  Kent,  and  learnt  farm- 

ing  ;  clear  of  the  army  first,  by !     But  I  must  stop  that 

burst  of  swearing.  Half  the  time  I've  been  away,  I  was 
there.  The  farmer's  a  good,  sober,  downhearted  man — a 
sort  of  beaten  Englishman,  who  don't  know  it,  tough,  and 
always  backing,  He  has  two  daughters  :  one  went  to  Lon- 
don, and  came  to  harm,  of  a  kind.  The  other  I'd  prick  this 
vein  for  and  bleed  to  death,  singing  ;  and  she  hates  me  !  I 
wish  she  did.  She  thought  me  such  a  good  young  man  !  1 
never  drank  ;  went  to  bed  early,  was  up  at  work  with  the 
birds.  Mr.  Robert  Armstrong '  That  changing  of  my 
name  was  like  a  lead  cap  on  my  head.  I  was  never  myself 
with  it.  felt  hang-dog — it  was  impossible  a  girl  could  care 
for  such  a  fellow  as  I  was.  Mother,  just  listen  :  she's  dark 
as  a  gipsy.  She's  the  faithfullest.  stoutest-hearted  creature 
in  the  world.  She  has  black  hair,  large  brown  eyes  ;  see 
her  once !  She's  my  mate.  I  could  say  to  her,  '  Stand 
there;  take  guard  of  a  thing;'  and  I  could  be  dead  certain 
other — she'd  perish  at  her  post.  Is  the  door  locked  ?  Lock 
the  door  ;  I  won't  be  seen  when  I  speak  of  her.  Yv  ell,  never 
mind  whether  she's  handsome  or  not.  She  isn't  a  lady;  but 
she's  my  lady ;  she's  the  woman  I  could  be  proud  of.     She 


158  EHODA  FlEiJlNa. 

Bends  mc  to  the  devil !  1  believe  a  woman  'd  fall  in  love 
with  her  cheeks,  they  are  so  round  and  soft  and  kindly 
coloured.  Think  me  a  fool;  I  am.  And  here  am  1,  away 
j'rom  lier,  and  ]  feel  that  any  day  harm  may  come  io  her, 
and  she'll  melt,  and  be  as  if  the  devils  of  hell  were  mocking 
nie.  Who's  to  keep  harm  from  her  when  ]'m  away  ?  What 
can  I  do  but  drink  arid  forpet  ?  Only  now,  Avhen  I  wake  np 
fiom  it,  I'm  a  crawling  wietch  at  her  feet.  If  I  had  her 
feet  to  kiss  !  I've  never  kissed,  her — never!  And  no  man 
has  kissed  her.  Damn  my  head!  here's  the  ache  coming  on. 
That's  my  last  oath,  mother.  1  wish  there  was  a  liible 
handy,  but  I'll  try  and  stick  to  it  without.  My  God  !  when 
I  think  of  her,  I  fancy  everything  on  earth  hangs  still  and 
doubts  what's  to  ha])pen.  I'm  like  a  wheel,  and  go  on  spin- 
ning. Feel  my  pulse  now.  Why  is  it  1  can't  stop  it?  But 
there  she  is,  and  I  could  crack  up  this  old  world  to  know 
•what's  coming.  I  was  mild  as  milk  all  those  davs  I  was 
near  her.  My  comfoit  is,  she  don't  know  me.  And  that's 
my  curse  too  1  If  she  did,  slie'd  know  as  clear  as  day  I'm 
her  mate,  her  match,  the  man  for  her.  I  am,  by  heaven  ! — 
that's  an  oath  permitted.  To  see  the  very  soul  I  want,  and 
to  miss  her!  I'm  down  here,  mother;  she  loves  her  sister, 
and  I  must  learn  Avhere  her  sister's  to  be  found.  One  of 
those  gentlemen  up  at  Fairly's  the  guilty  man.  I  don't  say 
which  ;  perhaps  I  don't  know.  But  oh,  what  a  lot  of  light- 
nings I  see  in  the  back  of  my  head  !" 

llobcrt  fell  back  on  the  pillow.  Mrs.  Bonlby  wiped  her 
eyes.  Her  feelings  were  overwhelmed  with  mournl'ul  devo- 
tion to  the  passionate  young  man  ;  and  she  expressed  them 
piactically  :  "  A  rump-.steak  would  never  digest  in  his  poor 
stomach  !" 

He  seemed  to  be  of  that  opinion  too,  for  when  after  lying 
till  eleven,  he  rose  and  appeared  at  the  breakfast-table,  he 
ate  nothing  but  crumbs  of  dry  bread.  It  was  curious  to  see 
his  precise  attention  to  the  neatness  of  his  hat  and  coat,  and 
the  nervous  eye  he  cast  upon  the  clock,  while  brushing  and 
accurately  fixing  these  garments.  The  hat  would  not  sit  as 
he  was  actiustomed  to  have  it,  owing  to  the  bruise  on  his 
head,  and  he  stood  like  a  woman  petulant  with  her  milliner 
befoi-e  the  glass  ;  now  pressing  the  hat  down  till  the  pain 
was  insnlfei-able,  and  again  trying  whether  it  presented  him 
acceptably  in  the  enforce',  style  of  his  wearing  it.     He  per* 


MRS.  LOVELL  SHOWS  A  TAME  BROTE.  159 

BJsted  in  this,  till  Mrs.  Boulby's  exclamation  of  wonder 
admonished  him  of  the  ideas  received  by  other  eyes  than  his 
own.  When  we  appear  most  incongruous,  we  are  often 
exposing  the  key  to  our  characters;  and  how  much  his 
vanity,  wounded  by  Rhoda,  had  to  do  with  his  proceedings 
down  at  Warbeach,  it  were  unfair  to  measure  just  yet,  lesfc 
his  finer  qualities  be  cast  into  shade,  but  to  whab  degree  it 
affected  him  will  be  seen. 

Mrs.  Boulby's  persuasions  induced  him  to  take  a  stout 
silver-topped  walking-stick  of  her  husband's,  a  relic  shaped 
from  the  wood  of  the  Royal  George  ;  leaning  upon  which 
rather  more  like  a  Naval  pensioner  than  he  would  have  cared 
to  know,  he  went  forth  to  his  appointment  with  the  ladj. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

MRS.  LOVELL  SHOWS  A  TAME  BROTB. 

The  park-sward  of  Fairly,  white  with  snow,  rolled  down 
in  long  sweeps  to  the  salt  water :  and  under  the  last  sloping 
oak  of  the  park  there  was  a  gorse-bushed  lane,  green  in 
Summer,  but  now  bearing  cumbrous  blossom-like  burdens  of 
the  crisp  snow-fall.  Mrs.  Lovell  sat  on  horseback  here,  and 
alone,  with  her  gauntletted  hand  at  her  waist,  charmingly 
habited  in  tone  with  the  landscape.  She  expected  a  cavalier, 
and  did  not  perceive  the  approach  of  a  pedestrian,  but  bowed 
quietly  when  Robert  lifted  his  hat. 

"  They  say  you  are  mad.     You  see,  I  trust  myself  to  yoa." 

*'  I  wish  I  could  thank  you  for  your  kindness,  madam." 

"  Are  you  ill  ?" 

"  I  had  a  fall  last  night,  madam." 

The  lady  patted  her  horse's  neck. 

"  1  haven't  time  to  inquire  about  it.  You  understand  that 
I  cannot  give  you  more  than  a  minute." 

She  glanced  at  her  watch. 

"  Let  us  say  five  exactly.  To  begin :  I  can't  affect  to  be 
ignorant  of  the  business  which  brings  you  down  here.  I 
won't  pretend  to  lecture  you  about  the  course  you  have 
taken;  but,  let  me  distinctly  assure  you,  that  the  gentleman 
yon  have  chosen  to  attack  in  this  extraordinary  manner,  has 
done  no    sfvoag  to  you  or  to  anyone.     It  is    therefore,  dist 


IGO  EHODA  FLEMIXO. 

gracefnlly  unjust  to  single  him  out.     You  know  lie  cannot 
possibly  tight  you.     I  speak  plainly." 

"  Yes,  madam,"  said  Robert.  "  I'll  answer  plainly.  He 
can't  fight  a  man  like  me.  I  know  it.  I  bear  him  no  ill- 
will.  I  believe  he's  innocent  enough  in  this  matter,  as  far 
as  acts  go." 

"  That  makes  your  behaviour  to  him  worse  1" 

Robert  looked  up  into  her  eyes. 

"  You  are  a  lady.  You  won't  be  shocked  at  what  I  tell 
you." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Lovell,  hastily  :  "  I  have  learnt — I 
am  aware  of  the  tale.  Some  one  has  been  injured :  or,  you 
think  so.  I  don't  accuse  you  of  madness,  but,  good  heavens ! 
what  means  have  you  been  pui'suing  !  Indeeil,  sir,  let  your 
feelings  be  as  deeply  engaged  as  possible,  you  have  gone 
altogether  the  wrong  way  to  work." 

"  Not  if  I  have  got  your  help  by  it,  madam," 

"  Gallantly  spoken." 

She  smiled  with  a  simple  grace.  The  next  moment  she 
consulted  her  watch. 

"  Time  has  gone  faster  than  I  anticipated.  I  must  leave 
you.     Let  this  be  our  stipulation  :" 

She  lowered  her  voice. 

"  You  shall  have  the  address  you  require.  I  will  under- 
take to  see  her  myself,  when  next  I  am  in  London.  It  will 
be  soon.  In  return,  sir,  favour  me  with  your  word  of  honour 
not  to  molest  this  gentleman  any  i'uither.  Will  you  do  that? 
You  may  tnist  me." 

"  I  do,  madam,  with  oil  my  soul !"  said  Robert. 

"  That's  suflicient.     I  ask  no  more.     Good  morning." 

Her  parting  bow  remained  with  hira  like  a  vision.  Her 
voice  was  like  the  tinkling  of  harp-strings  about  his  ears. 
The  colour  of  her  riding-habit  this  day,  harmonious  with 
the  snow-faced  earth,  as  well  as  the  genllc  mission  .slie  had 
taken  upon  herself,  strengthened  his  vivid  fancy  in  blessing 
her  as  something  quite  divine. 

He  thought  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  bitterly  of  the 
great  fortune  which  fell  to  gentlemen  in  meeting  and  hold- 
ing equal  converse  with  so  adorable  a  creature ;  and  he 
thought  of  Rhoda  as  being  harshly  earthly  ;  repulsive  in  her 
coldness  as  that  black  belt  of  water  contrasted  against  the 
snow  on  the  shores. 


MRS.  LOVELL  SHOWS  A  TAME  BRUTE.  161 

He  walked  some  paces  in  the  track  of  Mrs.  Lovell's  Borse, 
till  his  doing  so  seemed  too  presumptuous,  though  to  turn 
the  other  way  and  retrace  his  steps  was  downright  hateful : 
and  he  stood  apparently  in  profound  contemplation  of  a  ship 
of  war  and  the  trees  of  the  forest  behind  the  masts.  Either 
the  fatigue  of  standing,  or  emotion,  caused  his  head  to  thi-ob, 
so  that  he  heard  nothing,  not  even  men's  laughter  ;  but  look- 
ing up  suddenly,  he  beheld,  as  in  a  pictui'e,  Mrs.  Lovell  with 
some  gentlemen  walking  their  horses  toward  him.  The  lady 
gazed  softly  over  his  head,  letting  her  eyes  drop  a  quiet 
recognition  in  passing ;  one  or  two  of  the  younger  gentlemen 
stared  mockingly. 

Edward  Blancove  was  by  Mrs.  Lovell's  side.  His  eyes 
fixed  upon  Robert  with  steady  scrutiny,  and  Robert  gave 
him  a  similar  inspection,  though  not  knowing  why.  It  was 
like  a  child's  open  look,  and  he  was  feeling  childish,  as  if  his 
brain  had  ceased  to  act.  One  of  the  older  gentlemen,  with 
a  military  aspect,  squared  his  shoulders,  and  touching  aJl 
end  of  his  moustache,  said,  half  chaliengingly  : 

"  You  are  dismounted  to-day  ?" 

"  I  have  only  one  horse,"  Robert  simply  replied. 

Algernon  Blancove  came  last.  He  neither  spoke  noi 
looked  at  his  enemy,  but  warily  clutched  his  whip.  AD 
went  by,  riding  into  line  some  paces  distant ;  and  again  they 
laughed  as  they  bent  forward  to  the  lady,  shouting. 

"  Odd,  to  have  out  the  horses  on  a  day  like  this,"  Robert 
thought,  and  resumed  his  musing  as  before.  The  lady'a 
track  now  led  him  homeward,  for  he  had  no  will  of  his  own. 
Rounding  the  lane,  he  was  surprised  to  see  Mrs.  Boulby  by 
the  hedge.  She  bobbed  like  a  beggar  woman,  with  a  rueful 
face. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  in  apology  for  her  presence,  "  I 
shouldn't  ha'  interfered,  if  there  was  fair  play.  I'm  English- 
woman enough  for  that.  I'd  have  stood  by,  as  if  you  was  a 
stranger.  Gentlemen  always  give  fair  play  before  a  woman. 
That's  why  I  come,  lest  this  appointment  should  ha'  proved 
a  pitfall  to  you.  Now  you'll  come  home,  won't  you ;  and 
forgive  me  ?" 

"  I'll  come  to  the  old  Pilot  now,  mother,"  said  Robei*t, 
pressing  her  hand. 

"  That's  right ;  and  ain't  angry  with  me  for  following  of 
you  ?" 

K 


162  nnoDA  flemino. 

"  Follow  yonr  own  game,  mother." 

"  I  did,  Robei-t ;  and  nice  and  vexed  I  am,  if  I'm  correct  in 
what  I  heard  say,  as  that  lady  and  her  folk  passed,  never 
heeding  an  old  woman's  ears.  They  made  a  bet  of  you,  dear, 
they  did." 

"  I  hope  the  lady  won,"  said  Robert,  scarce  hearing. 

*'  And  it  iv(ts  she  wlio  won,  dear.  JSlie  was  to  get  you  to 
meet  her,  and  give  up,  and  be  beaten  like,  as  far  as  I  could 
understand  their  chatter ;  gentlefolks  laugh  so  when  they 
talk  ;  and  they  can  alTord  to  laugli,  for  they  has  the  best  of 
it.  But  I'm  vexed  ;  ju.st  as  if  I'd  felt  big  and  had  burst.  I 
want  you  to  be  peaceful,  of  course  I  do ;  but  I  don't  like  my 
boy  made  a  bet  of." 

"  Oh,  tush,  mother,"  said  Robert  impatiently. 

"  I  heard  'em,  my  dear ;  and  complimenting  the  lady  they 
was,  as  they  passed  me.  If  it  vexes  you  my  tliinking  it,  I 
won't,  dear ;  I  reelly  won't.  I  see  it  lowers  you,  for  there 
you  are  at  your  hat  again.  It  is  lowering,  to  be  made  a  bet 
of.  I've  that  spirit  that,  if  you  was  well  and  sound,  I'd 
rather  have  you  fighting  'em.  She's  a  pleasant  enough  lady 
to  look  at,  not  a  doubt;  small  boned,  and  slim,  and  fair." 

Robert  asked  which  way  they  had  gone. 

"  Back  to  the  stables,  my  dear ;  I  heard  'em  say  so,  because 
one  gentleman  said  that  the  spectacle  was  over,  and  the  lady 
had  gained  the  day;  and  the  snow  was  balling  in  the  horses' 
feet;  and  go  they'd  better,  before  my  lord  saw  them  out. 
And  another  said,  you  were  a  wild  man  she'd  tamed  ;  and 
they  said,  you  ought  to  wear  a  collar,  with  Mrs.  Lovell's, 
her  name,  graved  on  it.  But  dou'L  you  be  vexed  ;  you  may 
guess  they're  not  my  Robert's  friends.  And,  I  do  assure 
you,  Robert,  your  hat's  neat,  if  you'd  only  let  it  be  comfort- 
able :  such  fidgeting  worries  the  brim.  You're  best  in  ap- 
pearance— and  I  always  said  it — when  stripped  for  boxing. 
Hats  are  gentlemen's  things,  and  becomes  them  like  as  if  a 
title  to  their  heads  ;  though  you'd  bear  being  Sir  Robert, 
that  you  would  ;  and  for  that  matter,  your  hat  is  agreeable 
to  behold,  and  not  like  the  run  of  our  Sunday  hats  ;  only 
you  don't  seem  easy  in  it.  Oh,  oh !  my  tongue's  a  yard  too 
long.  It's  the  poor  head  aching,  and  me  to  forget  it.  It's 
because  you  never  will  act  invalidy ;  and  I  rcmcMiiber  how 
handsome  you  were  one  day  in  the  field  behind  our  hou.se, 
when  you  boxud  a  wager  with  Simon  Billet,  the  waterman ; 


MRS.  LOVELL  SHOWS  A  TAME  BRUTE.  163 

and  you  was  made  a  bet  of  then,  for  my  husband  betted  on 
you  ;  and  that's  what  made  me  think  of  comparisons  of  you 
out  of  your  hat  and  you  in  it." 

Thus  did  Mrs.  Boulby  chatter  along  the  way.  There  was 
an  eminence  a  little  out  of  the  road,  overlooking  the  Fairly 
stables.  Robert  left  her  and  went  to  this  point,  from  whence 
he  beheld  the  horsemen  with  the  grooms  at  the  horses' 
heads. 

"  Thank  God,  I've  only  been  a  fool  for  five  minutes  !"  he 
summed  up  his  sensations  at  the  sight.  He  shut  his  eyes, 
praying  with  all  his  might  never  to  meet  Mrs.  Lovell  more. 
It  was  impossible  for  him  to  combat  the  suggestion  that  she 
had  befooled  him ;  yet  his  chivalrous  faith  in  women  led  him 
to  believe  that,  as  she  knew  Dahlia's  history,  she  would  cer- 
tainly do  her  best  for  the  poor  girl,  and  keep  her  word  to 
him.  The  throbbing  of  his  head  stopped  all  further  (  ought. 
It  had  become  violent.  He  tried  to  gather  his  ideas,  but  ihe 
effort  was  like  that  of  a  light  dreamer  to  catch  the  se(|uence 
of  a  dream,  when  blackness  follows  close  up,  devouring  all 
that  is  said  and  done.  In  despair,  he  thought  with  kindness 
of  Mrs.  Boulby 's  brandy. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  rejoining  her,  "  I've  got  a  notion 
brandy  can't  hurt  a  man  when  he's  in  bed.  I'll  go  to  bed, 
and  you  shall  brew  me  some  ;  and  you'll  let  no  one  come 
nigh  me;  and  if  I  talk  light-headed,  it's  blank  paper  and 
scribble,  mind  that." 

The  widow  promised  devoutly  to  obey  all  his  directions  , 
but  he  had  begun  to  talk  light-headed  before  he  was  undrest. 
He  called  on  the  name  of  a  Major  Waiing,  of  whom  Mrs. 
Boulby  had  heard  him  speak  tenderly  as  a  gentleman  not 
ashamed  to  be  his  friend  ;  first  reproaching  him  for  not 
being  by,  and  then  by  the  name  of  Percy,  calling  to  him 
endearingly,  and  reproaching  himself  for  not  Laving  written 
to  him. 

"  Two  to  one,  and  in  the  dark  !"  he  kept  moaning:  "and 
I  one  to  twenty,  Percy,  all  in  broad  day.  Was  it  fair,  I 
ask  ?" 

Robert's  outcries  became  anything  but  'blank  paper  and 
scribble '  to  the  widow,  when  he  mentioned  Nic  Sedgett's 
name,  and  said  :  "  Look  over  his  right  temple  :  he's  got  my 
mark  a  second  time." 

Hanging  by  his  bedside,  Mrs.  Boulby  strung  together,  bit 

ii  2 


164  EHODA  FLEMING. 

by  bit,  the  history  of  tliat  base  midnight  attack,  which  had 
sent  her  glorious  boy  bleeding  to  her.  Nic  Sedgett,  slie 
conld  understiind,  was  tlie  accomplice  of  one  of  the  Fairly 
gentlemen  ;  but  of  which  one,  she  could  not  discover,  and 
concequently  set  him  down  as  Mr.  Algernon  IJlancove. 

By  diligent  inquiry,  she  heai'd  that  Algernon  had  been, 
seen  in  company  with  the  infamous  Nic,  and  likewise  that 
the  countenance  of  Nicodemus  was  reduced  to  accept  the 
consolation  of  a  poultice,  which  was  confirmation  sufficient. 
By  nightfall  Robert  was  in  the  doctor's  hands,  unconscious 
of  Mrs.  Jifjulhv's  breach  of  atn-eement.  His  father  and  his 
aunt  were  informed  of  his  condition,  and  prepared,  both  of 
them,  to  bow  their  heads  to  the  close  of  an  ungodly  career. 
It  was  known  over  Warbeach,  that  llobert  lay  in  danger, 
and  believed  that  he  was  dying. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

GIVES  A  GLIMPSE  OF  WHAT  POOR  VILLANIES  THE  STORY  CONTAINS. 

Mrs.  Boulby's  cars  had  not  deceived  her ;  it  had  been  a 
bet:  and  the  day  would  have  gone  disastrously  with  Robert, 
if  Mrs.  Lovell  had  not  won  her  bet.  What  was  heroism  to 
Warbeach,  appeared  very  outrageous  blackguardism  up  at 
Fairly.  It  was  there  believed  by  the  gentlemen,  though 
rather  against  evidence,  that  the  man  was  a  sturdy  ruilian, 
and  an  infuriated  sot.  The  first  suggestion  was  to  drag 
liim  before  the  magistrates ;  but  against  this  Algernon 
protested,  declaring  his  readiness  to  defend  himself,  with 
so  vehement  a  magnanimity,  that  it  was  clearly  seen  the 
man  had  a  claim  on  him.  Lord  Elling,  however,  when  he 
was  told  of  these  systematic  assaults  upon  one  of  his  guests, 
announced  his  resolve  to  bring  the  law  into  operation. 
Algernon  heard  it  as  the  knell  to  his  visit. 

He  was  too  happy,  to  go  away  willingly  ;  and  the  great 
Jew  City  of  London  was  exceedingly  hot  for  him  at  that 
period  ;  but  to  stay  and  risk  an  e.xjiosure  of  his  extinct  mili- 
l  ivy  eai-eer,  was  not  possible.  In  his  despair,  he  took  Mrs. 
Lovcil  entirely  into  his  confidence;  in  doing  which,  he  onl^ 


THE  FOOT?  VTLLAtTIES  OF  THE  STORY.  165 

filled  Tip  tlie  outlines  of  what  slie  already  knew  concerning 
Edward.  He  was  too  useful  to  the  lady  for  her  to  afford  to 
let  him  go.  ISTo  other  youth  called  her  "  angel  "  for  listening 
complacently  to  strange  stories  of  men  and  their  dilemmas  ; 
no  one  fetched  and  carried  for  her  like  Algernon ;  and  she 
was  a  woman  who  cherished  dog-like  adoration,  and  could 
not  part  with  it.     She  had  also  the  will  to  reward  it. 

At  her  intercession,  Robert  was  spared  an  introduction  to 
the  magistrates.  She  made  light  of  his  misdemeanours, 
assm-ing  everybody  that  so  splendid  a  horseman  deserved  to 
be  dealt  with  differently  from  other  offenders.  The  gentle- 
men who  waited  upon  Farmer  Eccles  went  in  obedience  to 
her  orders. 

Then  came  the  scene  on  Ditley  Marsh,  described  to  that 
assembly  at  the  '  Pilot,'  by  Stephen  Bilton,  when  she  per- 
ceived that  Robert  was  manageable  in  silken  trammels,  and 
made  a  bet  that  she  would  show  him  tamed.  She  won  her 
bet,  and  saved  the  gentlemen  from  soiling  their  hands,  for 
which  they  had  conceived  a  pressing  necessity,  and  they 
thanked  her,  and  paid  their  money  over  to  Algernon,  whom 
she  constituted  her  treasurer.  She  was  called  '  the  man- 
tamer,'  gi-acefully  acknowledging  the  compliment.  Colonel 
Barclay,  the  moustachioed  horseman,  who  had  spoken  the 
few  words  to  Robert  in  passing,  now  remarked  that  there 
was  an  end  of  the  military  profession. 

"  I  surrender  my  sword,"  he  said  gallantly. 
Another  declared  that  ladies   would  now   act  in   lieu  of 
causing  an  appeal  to  arms. 

'' Similia  similibus,  &c.,"  said  Edward.  "They  can, 
apparently,  cure  what  they  originate." 

"Ah,  the  poor  sex!"  Mrs.  Lovell  sighed.  "  When  we 
bring  the  millennium  to  you,  I  believe  you  will  still  have  a 
word  against  Eve." 

The  whole  parade  back  to  the  stables  was  marked  by 
pretty  speeches. 

"  By  Jove  !  but  he  ought  to  have  gone  down  on  his  knees, 
like  a  horse  when  you've  tamed  him,"  said  Lord  Suckling, 
the  young  guardsman. 

"  I  would  mark  a  distinction  between  a  horse  and  a  brave 
man,  Lord  Suckliag,"  said  the  lady  ;  and  such  was  Mrs. 
Lovell's  dignity  when  an  allusion  to  Robert  was  forced  on 
liei-,  and  her  wit  and  ease  were  so  admirable,  that  none  of 


IHG  RHODA  FLEMING. 

those  who  rodo  with  her  thouu^lit  of  sitting  in  jnd.<>'eTnent  on 
her  coTiduct.  Women  can  make  for  themselves  new  spJiercs, 
new  l:iws,  if  tlu>v  will  assume  their  right  to  be  ccccriliio  as 
an  unquestionable  thing,  and  always  reserve  a  season  for 
showing  forth  like  the  conventional  women  of  society. 

The  evening  was  Mrs.  Lovell's  time  for  this  important 
re-establishment  of  her  position  ;  and  many  a  silly  youth 
who  iiad  sailed  pleasantly  with  her  all  the  ilay,  was  wrecked 
when  he  tried  to  carry  on  the  topics  where  she  reigned  the 
lady  of  the  drawing-room.  ^Moreover,  not  being  eccentric 
from  vanity,  but  siin[)ly  to  accommodate  what  had  once 
been  her  tastes,  and  were  now  her  necessities,  she  avoided 
slang,  and  all  the  insignia  of  eccentricity. 

Thus  she  mastered  the  secret  of  keeping  the  young  men 
respectfully  enthusiastic ;  so  that  their  irrepressible  praises 
did  not  (as  is  usual  when  these  are  in  acclamati(m)  drag  her 
to  their  level ;  nnd  the  female  world,  with  which  she  was 
perfectly  feminine,  and  as  silkeuly  insipid  every  evening  of 
her  life  as  was  heeded  to  restore  her  reputation,  admitted 
that  she  belonged  to  it,  which  is  everything  to  an  adventur- 
ous spirit  of  that  sex :  indeed,  the  sole  secure  basis  of 
operations. 

You  are  aware  that  men's  faith  in  a  woman  whom  her 
sisters  discountenance,  and  partially  re])udiate,  is  uneasy, 
however  deeply  they  may  be  charmed.  On  the  other  hand, 
she  may  be  guilty  of  prodigious  oddities  without  ipuch  dis- 
turbing their  i-everence,  while  she  is  in  the  feminine  circle. 

But  what  fatal  bieath  was  it  coming  from  ^li-s.  Lovell 
that  was  always  inflaming  men  to  mutual  animosity  ?  What 
encouragement  li;id  slie  given  to  Algerncm,  that  Lord  Suck- 
ling should  be  jealous  of  him  ?  And  what  to  Lord  .Suckling, 
that  Algernon  should  loathe  the  sight  of  the  young  lord  ? 
And  why  was  each  desirous  of  showing  his  manhood  in  com- 
bat before  an  eminent  peacemaker  ? 

Edward  laughed — "  Ah-ha  !"  and  rubbed  his  hands  as  at 
a  special  confirmation  of  his  prophecy,  when  Algernon  came 
into  his  room  and  said,  "  I  shall  light  that  fellow  Suckling. 
Hang  me  if  I  can  stand  his  impudence  !  I  want  to  have  a 
shot  at  a  man  of  my  own  set,  just  to  let  Peggy  Lovell  see! 
I  know  what  she  thinks." 

"  Just  to  let  Mrs.  Lovell  see  !"  Edward  echoed.  "  She 
has  seen  it  lots  of  times,  my  dear  Algy.     Come ;  this  looks 


THE  POOR  VILLANIES  OF  THE  STORY.  1  f)7 

lively.     I  was  sure  she  would  soon  be  sick  of  the  water-gruel 
of  peace." 

"  I  tell  you  she's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it,  Xed.  Don't 
be  confoundedly  unjust.  She  didn't  tell  me  to  go  and  seek 
him.  How  can  she  help  his  whispering  to  her  ?  And  then 
she  looks  over  at  me,  and  I  swear  I'm  not  going  to  be  de- 
fended by  a  woman.  She  must  fancy  1  haven't  got  the  pluck 
of  a  flea.  I  know  what  her  idea  of  young  fellows  is.  Why, 
she  said  to  me,  when  Suckling  went  off  from  her,  the  other 
day,  '  These  are  our  Guai'ds.'     I  shall  fight  him." 

"  Do,"  said  Edward. 

**  Will  you  take  a  challenge  ?" 

"  I'm  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Mars." 

"  You  won't  take  a  challenge  for  a  friend,  when  he's  in- 
sulted ?" 

"  I  reply  again,  I  am  a  lawyer.  But  this  is  what  I'll  do, 
if  you  like.  I'll  go  to  Mrs.  Lovell,  and  inform  her  that  it  is 
your  desire  to  g-ain  her  esteem  by  fighting  with  pistols.  That 
will  accomplish  the  purpose  you  seek.  It  will  possibly  dis- 
appoint her,  for  she  will  have  to  stop  the  affair ;  but  women 
are  born  to  be  disappointed — they  want  so  much." 

"  I'll  fight  him  some  way  or  other,"  said  Algernon,  glower- 
ing ;  and  then  his  face  became  bright :  "  I  say,  didn't  she 
manage  that  business  beautifully  this  morning?  Not 
another  woman  in  the  world  could  have  done  it." 

"  Oh,  Una  and  the  Lion !  Mrs.  Valentine  and  Orson ! 
Did  you  bet  with  the  rest  ?"  his  cousin  asked. 

"  I  lost  my  tenner  ;  but  what's  that !" 

"  There  will  be  an  additional  five  to  hand  over  to  the  man 
Sedgett.     What's  that!" 

"  No,  hang  it !"  Algernon  shouted. 

"  You've  paid  your  ten  for  the  shadow  cheerfully.  Pay 
your  five  for  the  substance." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Sedgett "  Algernon  stared. 

"  Miracles,  if  you  come  to  examine  them,  Algy,  have  gene- 
rally had  a  pathway  prepared  for  them ;  and  the  miracle  of 
the  power  of  female  persuasion  exhibited  this  morning  was 
not  quite  independent  of  the  preliminary  agency  of  a  scoun- 
drel." 

*'  So  that's  why  you  didn't  bet."  Algernon  signified  the 
opening  of  his  intelligence  with  his  eyelids,  pronouncing 
'  by  jingos '  and  '  by  Joves,'  to  ease  the  sudden  rush  of  ideas 


ins  ETIODA  FLEMINa. 

Avitliin  lum.  "  You  might  have  lot  me  into  the  secret,  T^ed. 
I'd  lose  any  number  of  tens  to  Pt'ggJ  Lovell,  but  a  follow 
don't  like  to  be  in  the  dark." 

"Except,  Altry,  that  when  you  carry  licht,  you're  <a  general 
illuminator.  Let  the  matter  drop.  Sedgett  has  saved  you 
from  annoyance.     Take  him  his  five  pounds." 

"Annoyance  be  hnncrcd,  my  good  Ned!"  Algernon  was 
aroused  to  reply.  "  I  don't  comjdain,  and  I've  done  my  best 
to  stand  in  front  of  you;  and  as  you've  settled  the  fellow,  I 
say  nothing;  but,  between  us  two,  who's  the  guilty  party, 
and  who's  the  victim  ?" 

"  Didn't  he  tell  you  he  had  you  in  his  power  ?" 

"  I  don't  lemember  that  he  did." 

"  AVell,  I  heard  him.  The  sturdy  cur  refused  to  be  bribed, 
60  there  was  only  one  way  of  quieting  him  ;  and  you  see 
what  a  thrashing  does  for  that  sort  of  beast.  I,  Algy,  never 
abandon  a  friend;  mark  that.  Take  the  five  pounds  to 
Sedgett." 

Algernon  strode  about  the  room.  *'  First  of  all,  you  stick 
me  u]i  in  a  theatre,  so  that  I'm  seen  with  a  girl ;  and  then 
you  get  behind  me,  and  let  me  be  pelted,"  he  began  grumb- 
ling. "  And  ask  a  fellow  for  money,  who  hasn't  a  farthing ! 
I  shan't  literally  have  a  farthing  till  that  horse  '  Temple- 
more  '  1  'ns  ;  and  then,  by  George  !  I'll  pay  my  debts.  Jews 
arc  awful  things  !" 

"How  much  do  yon  require  at  present?"  said  Edward, 
provoking  his  ap]ietite  for  a  lonn. 

"  Oh,  fifty — that  is,  just  now.  More  like  a  thousand  when 
I  get  to  town.  And  where  it's  to  come  from ! — but  never 
mind.  'Pon  my  soul,  I  pity  the  fox  I  run  down  here.  I  feel 
I'm  exactly  ^in  his  case  in  London.  However,  if  I  can  do  you 
any  service,  Ned " 

Edward  laughed.  "You  might  have  done  me  the  service 
of  not  excusing  3-oursolf  to  the  squire  when  he  came  here,  in 
such  a  way  as  to  implicate  me." 

"  But  I  was  so  tremendously  badgered,  Ned." 

"You  had  a  sort  of  gi-atilication  in  letting  the  squire  crow 
over  his  brother.     And  he  did  crow  for  a  time." 

"  On  my  honour,  Ned,  as  to  crowing !  he  went  away 
cursing  at  me.  Peggy  Lovell  managed  it  eomehow  for  you. 
I  was  really  awfully  badgered." 


THE  POOE  VILLANIES  OF  THE  STOET.  169 

"Yes;  but  you  know  "wliat  a  man  my  father  is.  He 
hasn't  the  squire's  philosophy  in  those  aiJairs." 

"  'Pon  my  soul,  Mr.  Ned,  I  never  guessed  it  before ;  but  I 
rather  fancy  you  got  clear  with  Sir  Billy  the  banker  by 
washing  in  my  basin — eh,  did  you  ?" 

Edward  looked  straight  at  his  cousin,  saying,  "You  de- 
served worse  than  that.  You  were  treacherous.  You  proved 
you  were  not  to  be  trusted ;  and  yet,  you  see,  I  trust  you. 
Call  it  my  folly.  Of  course  (and  I  don't  mind  telling  you) 
I  used  my  wits  to  turn  the  point  of  the  attack.  I  may  be  what 
they  call  unscrupulous  when  I'm  surprised.  I  have  to  look 
to  money  as  well  as  you ;  and  if  my  father  thought  it  went  in 
a — what  he  considers — wrong  direction,  the  source  would  be 
choked  by  paternal  morality.     You  betrayed  me.     Listen." 

"  I  tell  you,  IS'ed,  I  merely  said  to  my  governor " 

"  Listen  to  me.  You  betrayed  me.  I  defended  myself ; 
that  is,  I've  managed  so  that  I  may  still  be  of  ser^dce  to  you. 
It  was  a  near  shave  ;  but  you  now  see  the  value  of  having  a 
character  with  one's  father.  Just  open  my  Avriting-desk 
there,  and  toss  out  the  cheque-book.  I  confess  I  can't  see 
why  you  should  have  objected — but  let  that  pass.  How 
much  do  you  want  ?  Fifty  ?  Say  forty-five,  and  five  I'll 
give  you  to  pay  to  Sedgett— making  fifty.  Eighty  before,  and 
fifty — one  hundred  and  thirty.  Write  that  you  owe  meth-.t 
sum,  on  a  piece  of  paper.  I  can't  see  why  you  should  wish 
to  appear  so  uncommonly  virtuous." 

Algernon  scribbled  the  written  acknowledgment  which  he 
despised  himself  for  giving,  and  the  receiver  for  taking,  but 
was  always  ready  to  give  for  the  money,  and  said,  as  he  put 
the  cheque  in  his  purse  :  "  It  was  this  infernal  fellow  com- 
pletely upset  me.  If  you  were  worried  by  a  bull-dog,  by 
Jove,  Ned,  you'd  lose  your  coolness.  He  bothered  my  head 
oif.  Ask  me  now,  and  I'll  do  anything  on  earth  for  you. 
My  back's  broad.  Sir  Billy  can't  think  worse  of  me  than  he 
does.  Do  you  want  to  break  positively  with  that  pretty 
rival  to  Peggy  L.  ?  I've  got  a  scheme  to  relieve  you,  my 
poor  old  Ned,  and  make  everybody  happy.  I'll  lay  the 
foundations  of  a  Fresh  and  brilliant  reputation  for  myself." 

Algernon  took  a  chair.  Edward  was  fathoms  deep  in  his 
book. 

The  former  continued  :  "  I'd  touch  on  the  money-question 
last,  with  any  other  fellow  than  you ;  but  you  always  know 


170  RnODA  FLEMING. 

that  money's  the  hinge,  and  iiolliing  else  lifts  a  mnn  out 
of  a  scrape.  It  costs  a  still  j)ull  on  your  biiiikcr,  and  tliat 
reminds  me,  you  couldn't  go  to  Sir  l>illy  for  it ;  you'd  liave 
to  draw  in  advance,  by  degices  :  anyhow,  look  here: — Tliere 
are  lots  of  young  farmers  who  want  to  emigiate  and  w.-iut 
wives  and  money.  I  know  one.  It's  no  use  going  into  ])ar- 
ticulars,  but  its  worth  thinking  over.  Life  is  nuide  up  of 
mutual  help,  Ned.  You  c;in  help  another  fellow  better  than 
yourself.  As  for  me,  when  I'm  in  a  hobble,  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honour,  I'm  just  like  a  baby,  and  haven't  an  idea 
at  my  own  disposal.  The  same  with  others.  Yoa  cant 
manage  without  somebody's  assistance.  What  do  you  say, 
old  boy  ?" 

Edward  raised  his  head  from  his  book.  "  Some  views  of 
life  deduced  from  your  private  experience?"  he  observed; 
and  Algernon  cursed  at  book-worms,  who  would  never  take 
hints,  and  left  him. 

liut  when  he  was  by  himself,  Edward  pitched  his  book 
•npon  the  floor  and  gat  reflecting.  The  sweat  started  on  his 
forehead.  He  was  compelled  to  look  into  his  black  volume 
and  study  it.  His  desire  was  to  act  humanely  and  gener- 
ously ;  but  the  question  inevitably  recurred:  "How  can  I 
utterly  dash  my  pros|)eets  in  the  world  ?"  It  would  be 
impossible  to  bring  Dahlia  to  great  houses;  and  he  liked 
great  houses  and  the  charm  of  mixing  among  delicately-bred 
women.  On  the  other  hand,  lawyers  have  married  beneath 
them — mai-ried  cooks,  housemaids,  governesses,  and  .so  forth. 
And  what  has  a  lawyer  to  do  with  a  dainty  lady,  who  t\ill 
constantly  distract  him  with  finicking  civilities  and  specula- 
tions in  unprofitable  regions?  What  he  does  want  is  a 
woman  amiable  as  a  surface  of  pai'chment,  serviceable  as  his 
inkstand  ;  one  who  will  be  like  the  wig  in  which  he  closes 
his  forensic  term,  disreputable  from  overwear,  but  suited  to 
the  purpose. 

"Ah  !  if  I  meant  to  be  nothing  but  a  lawyer!"  Edward 
stopped  the  flow  of  this  current  in  Dalilia's  favour.  His 
jiassiou  for  her  was  silent.  AVas  it  dead  ?  It  was  certainly 
silent.  Since  Robert  had  come  down  to  play  his  wild  giuue 
of  persecution  at  Fairly,  the  simple  idea  of  Dahlia  had  been 
Edward's  fever.  He  detested  brute  force,  with  a  finely- 
"witted  man's  full  loathing;  and  Dahlia's  ;)bnoxious  chiitu- 
pion  had  grown  to  be  associated   in   his  mind  with  Dahlia. 


THE  POOR  VILLANIES  OF  THE  STORY.  171 

He  swept  them  both  from  his  recollection  abhorrently,  for 
in  his  recollection  he  could  not  divorce  them.  He  pretended 
to  suppose  that  Dahlia,  whose  only  reproach  to  him  was  her 
suffering,  participated  m  the  scheme  to  worry  him.  He 
could  even  forget  her  beauty — forget  all,  save  the  unholy 
fetters  binding  him.  She  seemed  to  imprison  him  in  bare 
walls.  He  meditated  on  her  character.  She  had  no  strength. 
She  was  timid,  comfort-loving,  fond  of  luxury,  credulous, 
preposterously  conventional ;  that  is,  desirous  more  than  tho 
ordinary  run  of  women  of  being  hedged  about  and  guarded 
by  ceremonies — "  mere  ceremonies,"  said  Edward,  forgetting 
the  notion  he  entertained  of  women  not  so  protected.  But 
it  may  be,  that  in  playing  the  part  of  fool  and  coward,  we 
cease  to  be  mindful  of  the  absolute  necessity  for  sheltering 
the  weak  from  that  monstrous  allied  arn}y,  the  cowards  and 
the  fools.  He  admitted  even  to  himself  that  he  had  deceived 
hei',  at  the  same  time  denouncing  her  unheard-of  capacity 
of  belief,  which  had  placed  him  in  a  miserable  hobble,  and 
that  was  the  truth. 

Now,  men  confessing  themselves  in  a  miserable  bobble, 
and  knowing  they  aj^e  guilty  of  the  state  of  things  lamented 
by  them,  intend  to  drown  that  part  of  their  nature  which 
disturbs  thom  by  its  outcry.  The  submission  to  a  tangle 
that  could  be  cut  through  instantaneously  by  any  exertion 
of  a  noble  will,  convicts  them.  They  had  better  not  confide, 
even  to  their  secret  hearts,  that  they  are  afflicted  by  their 
conscience  and  the  generosity  of  their  sentiments,  for  it  will 
be  only  to  say  that  these  high  qualities  are  on  the  failing 
side.  Their  inclination,  under  the  circumstances,  is  generally 
base,  and  no  less  a  counsellor  than  uncorrupted  common 
sense,  when  they  are  in  such  a  hobble,  will  sometimes  advise 
them  to  be  base.  But,  in  admitting  the  plea  which  common 
sense  puts  forward  on  their  behalf,  we  may  fairly  ask  them 
to  be  masculine  in  their  baseness.  Or,  in  other  words,  since 
they  must  be  selfish,  let  them  be  so  without  the  poltroonery 
of  selfishness.  Edward's  wish  w^as  to  be  perfectly  just,  as 
far  as  he  could  be  now — just  to  himself  as  well ;  for  how 
was  he  to  prove  of  worth  and  aid  to  anyone  depending  on 
bim,  if  he  stood  crippled  ?  Just,  also, to  his  family;  to  his 
possible  posterity  ;  and  just  to  Dahlia.  His  task  was  to 
reconcile  the  variety  of  justness  due  upon  all  sides.  The 
struggle,  we  will  assume,  was  severe,  for  he  thought  so;  he 


172  lUIODA  PLKMINO. 

thought  or  poincr  to  Diililia  and  Rpcakiiiir  t1io  word  of  sopnra- 
tion  ;  of  g'oiii^'  lo  lier  lainily  and  stuliny  liis  uilence,  without 
personal  exculpation ;  thus  masculine  in  baseness  he  was  ir 
idea ;  but  poltroonery  triumphed,  the  picture  of  himself 
faeiuf^  his  sin  and  its  vietiius  dismayeil  him,  and  his  strugi.'-lo 
ended  in  his  considering'  as  to  the  fit  employmi'ut  of  one 
thousand  pounds  in  his  ])ossession,  the  remainder  of  a  small 
legacy,  hitherto  much  cherished. 

A  day  later,  ^Irs.  Lovell  said  to  him:  "Have  you  heard 
of  that  unfortunate  young  man  ?  I  am  told  that  he  lies  in 
great  danger  from  a  blow  on  the  back  of  his  head.  He 
looked  ill  when  1  saw  him,  and  however  mad  he  may  be, 
I'm  sorry  harm  should  have  come  to  one  who  is  really  bi-ave. 
Gentle  means  are  surely  best.  It  is  so  with  horses,  it  7>iiist 
be  so  with  men.  As  to  women,  I  don't  pretend  to  unritldle 
them." 

"  Gentle  means  are  decidedly  best,"  said  Edward,  per. 
ceiving  that  her  little  dog  Algy  had  carried  news  to  her, 
and  tliat  she  was  setting  herself  to  fathom  him.  "  Yon  gave 
an  eminent  example  of  it  yesterday.  I  was  so  tsure  of  the 
result  that  1  didn  t  bet  against  you." 

"  Why  not  have  backed  me  ?" 

The  hard  young  legal  face  withstood  the  attack  of  her 
soft  blue  eye.s,  out  of  which  a  thousand  needles  tlew,  seeking 
a  weak  point  in  the  mask. 

"  The  compliment  was,  to  incite  you  to  a  superhuman 
e£f<u-t." 

"  Then  why  not  pay  the  compliment  ?" 

"  I  never  pay  compliments  to  trauspai-ent  merit ;  I  do  not 
hold  candles  to  lamps." 

"  True,"  said  she. 

"  And  as  gentle  means  are  so  admirable,  it;  would  be  as 
well  to  stop  incision  and  imbruing  between  those  two 
boys." 

"  Which  ?"  she  asked  innocently. 

"  Suckling  and  Algy." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?     They  are  such  boys." 

"  Exactly  of  the  kind  to  do  it.  Uon't  yon  know  ?"  and 
Edward  explained  elaborately  aTid  cruelly  the  character  of 
the  boys  who  rushed  into  conflicts.  Colour  deep  as  evening 
red  confused  Ler  cheeks,  and  she  said,  ''We  must  stop 
them." 


TEE  POOR  VILLANIES  OP  THE  STOKT.  1  <  3 

"  Alas !"  he  shook  his  head  ;  "  if  it's  not  too  late." 

"  It  never  is  too  late." 

"  Perhaps  not,  when  the  embodiment  of  gentle  means  is  so 
determined." 

"Come;  I  believe  they  are  in  the  billiard  room  now,  and 
you  shall  see,"  she  said. 

The  pair  were  found  in  the  billiard  room,  even  as  a  pair 
of  terriers  that  remember  a  bone.  Mrs.  Lovell  proposed  a 
game,  and  offered  herself  for  pai-tner  to  Lord  Suckling. 

"  Till  total  defeat  do  us  part,"  the  young  nobleman 
acquiesced  ;  and  total  defeat  befell  them.  During  the  play 
of  the  balls,  Mrs.  Lovell  threw  a  jealous  intentness  of  obser- 
vation upon  all  the  strokes  made  by  Algernon ;  saying 
nothing,  but  just  looking  at  him  when  he  did  a  successful 
thing.  She  winked  at  some  quiet  stately  betting  that  went 
on  between  him  and  Lord  Suckling. 

They  were  at  first  preternaturally  polite  and  formal  toward 
one  another ;  by  degrees,  the  influence  at  work  upon  them 
■was  manifested  in  a  thaw  of  their  stilf  demeanour,  and  they 
fell  into  curt  dialogues,  which  Mi-s.  Lovell  ga^e  herself  no 
concern  to  encourage  too  early. 

Edward  saw,  and  was  astonished  himself  to  feel  that  she 
had  ceased  to  bi'eathe  that  fatal  inciting  breath,  which  made 
men  vindictively  emulous  of  her  favour,  and  mad  to  match 
themselves  for  a  claim  to  the  chief  smile.  No  perceptible 
change  was  displayed.  She  was  Mrs.  Lovell  still ;  vivacious 
and  soft ;  flame-coloured,  with  the  ai^rowy  eyelashes  ;  a  plea- 
sant companion,  who  did  not  play  the  woman  obtrusively 
among  men,  and  show  a  thirst  for  homage.  All  the  dif- 
ference appeared  to  be,  that  there  was  an  absence  as  of  some 
evil  spiritual  emanation. 

And  here  a  thought  crossed  him — one  of  the  memorable 
little  evanescent  thoughts  which  sway  us  by  our  chance 
weakness ;  "  Does  she   think  me    wanting  in  physical  cou- 

Now,  though  the  difference  between  them  had  been  owing 
to  a  scornful  remark  that  she  had  permitted  herself  to  utter, 
on  his  refusal  to  accept  a  quarrel  with  one  of  her  numerous 
satellites,  his  knowledge  of  her  worship  of  brains,  and  his 
pride  in  his  possession  of  the  burdensome  weight,  had  quite 
precluded  his  guessing  that  she  might  haply  suppose  him  to 
be  deficient  in  personal  bravery.     He  was  astounded  by  the 


rage 


174  RHODA  FLEMING. 

reflection  tliat  slie  had  thus  misjudged  Inm.  Tt  wag  dis- 
tructing;  soI)er-thou_<^litod  as  ho  was  by  nature.  lie  watched 
the  fair  simplicity  of  her  now  manner  with  a  jealous  eye. 
Ilor  nianafjiTnicnt  of  tlio  two  youths  was  exquisite  ;  but  to 
him,  Edward,  she  had  never  condescended  to  show  herself 
thus  mediating  and  amiable.  Why  ?  Clearly,  because  she 
conceived  that  he  had  no  virile  fiie  in  his  composition.  Did 
the  detestable  little  devil  think  silly  duelling  a  display  of 
valour  ?  Did  the  fair  seraph  think  him  anything  less  than 
a  man  ? 

How  beautifully  hung  the  yellow  loop  of  her  hair  as  she 
leaned  over  the  board!  How  gracious  she  was  and  like  a 
Goddess  with  these  boys,  as  he  called  them !  She  rallied 
her  partner,  not  letting  him  forgot  that  he  had  the  honour 
of  being  her  partner ;  while  she  appeared  envious  of  Alger- 
non's skill,  and  talked  to  both  and  got  them  upon  common 
topics,  and  laughed,  and  was  like  a  fair  English  flower  of 
womanhood;  nothing  deadly. 

"  There,  Algy ;  you  have  beaten  us.  T  don't  think  I'll 
have  Lord  Suckling  for  my  partner  any  more,"  she  said, 
putting  up  her  wand,  and  pouting. 

"You  don't  bear  malice  ?"  said  Algernon,  revived. 

"  There  is  my  hand.  Now  you  must  play  a  game  alone 
with  Lord  Suckling,  and  boat  him;  mind  you  beat  him,  or 
it  will  j'odouiid  to  my  discredit." 

With  which,  she  and  Edward  left  them. 

"  Algy  was  a  little  crest-fallen,  and  no  wonder,"  she  said. 
"  He  is  soon  sot  up  again.     They  will  be  good  friends  now." 

"  Isn't  it  odd,  that  they  should  be  ready  to  risk  their  lives 
for  trifles  ?" 

Thus  Edward  tempted  her  to  discuss  the  subject  which 
he  had  in  his  mind. 

She  felt  intuitively  the  trap  in  his  voice. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  she  replied  ;  "  it  must  be  because  they  know 
their  lives  are  not  precious." 

So  utterly  at  her  mercy  had  he  fallen,  that  her  pronun- 
ciation of  that  woi"d  '  precious  '  carried  a  severe  sting  to  him, 
and  it  was  not  spoken  with  ])eculiar  emphasis  ;  on  the  con- 
tj'ary,  she  wished  to  indicate  that  she  was  of  his  way  of 
thinking,  as  regarded  this  decayed  method  of  settling  dia» 
putos.     He  turned  to  leaver  her. 

"  You  e:o  to  your  Adeline,  I  presume,"  she  said. 


THE  POOR  VILLANIES  OF  TEIR  STORY.  175 

**  All !  tliat  reminds  me.     I  have  never  thanked  you." 

"  For  my  good  services  ?  sueh  as  they  are.  Sir  William 
will  be  very  happy,  and  it  was  for  him,  a  little  more  than 
for  you,  that  I  went  out  of  my  way  to  be  a  match-maker." 

"  It  was  her  character,  of  course,  that  struck  you  as  being 
so  eminently  suited  to  mine." 

"  Can  I  tell  what  is  the  character  of  a  g-irl  ?  She  is  mild 
and  .s;hy,  and  extremely  gentle.  In  all  probability  she  has  a 
passion  for  battles  and  bloodshed.  1  judged  from  your 
father's  point  of  view.  She  has  money,  and  you  are  to  have 
money ;  and  the  union  of  money  and  money  is  supposed  to 
be  a  good  thing.  And  besides,  you  are  variable,  and  off  to- 
morrow what  you  are  on  to-day  ;  is  it  not  so  ?  and  heiresses 
are  never  jilted.  Colonel  Barclay  is  only  awaiting  your 
retirement.  Le  roi  est  mort ;  vive  le  roi  !  Heiresses  may  cry 
it  like  kingdoms." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Edward,  meaningly,  "the  colonel  had 
better  taste." 

"  Do  you  not  know  that  my  friends  are  my  friends  because 
they  are  not  allowed  to  dream  they  will  do  anj'thing  else  ? 
If  they  are  taken  poorly,  I  commend  them  to  a  sea- voyage — ■ 
Africa,  the  North-AYest  Pas.sage,  the  source  of  the  Nile. 
]\len  with  their  vanity  wounded  may  discover  wonders ! 
They  return  friendly  as  before,  whether  they  have  done  the 
Geographical  Society  a  service  or  not.  That  is,  they  gener- 
ally do." 

"  Then  I  begin  to  fancy  T  must  try  those  latitudes." 

*'  Oh  !  you  are  my  relative." 

Pie  scarcely  knew  that  he  had  uttered  "  Margaret." 

She  replied  to  it  frankly,  "Yes,  Cousin  Ned.  You  have 
made  the  voyage,  you  see,  and  have  come  back  friends  with 
me.  The  variability  of  opals  !  Ah  !  Sir  John,  you  join  us 
in  season.  We  were  talking  of  opals.  Is  the  opal  a  gera 
that  stands  to  represent  women  ?" 

Sir  John  Capes  smoothed  his  knuckles  with  silken  palms, 
and  with  courteous  antique  grin,  responded,  "  It  is  a  gem  I 
would  never  dare  to  offer  to  a  lady's  acceptance." 

"  It  is  by  repute  unlucky ;  so  you  never  can  have  done 
so." 

"  Exquisite  !"  exclaimed  the  veteran  in  smiles,  "  if  what 
you  deign  to  imply  were  only  true  !" 

They  entered  the  drawing-room  among  the  ladies. 


17G  EHODA  FLEMING. 

Edward  whispered  in  Mrs.  Lovell's  ear,  "  lie  is  in  need  of 
the  voyage." 

"  lie  is  very  near  it,"  she  answered  in  the  same  key,  and 
swam  into  general  conversation. 

Her  cold  wit,  Satanic  as  the  gleam  of  it  struck  thi'ongh 
his  minil,  gave  him  a  thrub  of  det,iie  to  gi>Iu  pob;iCiJ!iiun  of 
htr,  and.  crush  her. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

EDWARD  TAKES  HIS  COCESB. 

The  writing  of  a  letter  to  Dahlia  had  previon<?ly  been 
attempted  antl  abandoned  as  a  sickening  task.  Like  an  idle 
boy  with  his  holiday  imposition,  Edwaii  shelved  it  among 
the  nightmares,  saying,  "  How  can  I  sit  down  and  lie  to  her !" 
and  thinking  that  silence  would  prepare  her  bosom  for  the 
coming  truth. 

Silence  is  commonly  the  slow  poison  used  by  those  who 
mean  to  murder  love.  There  is  nothing  violent  about  it;  no 
shock  is  given  ;  Hope  is  not  abruptly  strangled,  but  merely 
dreams  of  evil,  and  fights  with  gradually  stilling  shadows. 
When  the  last  convulsions  come  they  are  not  terrific;  the 
frame  has  been  weakened  for  dissolution  ;  love  dies  like 
natural  decay.  It  seems  the  kindest  way  of  doing  a  cruel 
thing.  But  Dahlia  wrote,  crying  out  her  agony  at  the  tor- 
ture. Possibly  your  nervously-organized  natures  require  a 
modification  of  the  method.  Edwai-d  now  found  himself 
able  to  conduct  a  correspondence.  He  despatched  the  fol- 
lowing : — 

"  My  dear  Daulta, 

"  Of  course  I  cannot  expect  you  to  be  aware  of  the 
bewildering  occupations  of  a  country  house,  where  a  man 
has  literally  not  five  minutes'  time  to  call  his  own  ;  so  I  pass 
by  your  reproaches.  My  father  has  gone  at  last.  He  has 
manifested  an  extraordinaiy  liking  for  my  society,  and  I  ara 
to  join  him  elsewhere — perhaps  run  over  to  I'ln-is  (yav.r  city) 
- — but  at  present  for  a  few  days  I  am.  my   own  master,  and 


EDWARD  TAKES  HIS  COUESE.  177 

the  first  thing  I  do  is  to  attend  to  yonr  demands :  not  to 
write  '  two  lines,'  but  to  give  you  a  good  long  letter. 

"  What  on  earth  makes  you  fancy  me  unwell  ?  You 
know  I  am  never  unwell.  And  as  to  your  nui'sing  me — 
when  has  there  ever  been  any  need  for  it  ? 

"  Ton  must  positively  learn  patience.  I  have  been  absent 
a  week  or  so,  and  you  talk  of  coming  down  here  and  haunt- 
ing the  house !  Such  ghosts  as  you  meet  with  strange 
treatment  when  they  go  about  unprotected,  let  me  give  you 
warning.  You  have  my  full  permission  to  walk  out  in  the 
Parks  for  exercise.  I  think  you  are  bound  to  do  it,  for  your 
health's  sake. 

"  Pray  discontinue  that  talk  about  the  alteration  in  your 
looks.  You  must  learn  that  you  are  no  longer  a  child.  Cease 
to  write  like  a  child.  If  people  stare  at  you,  as  you  say,  you 
are  very  well  aware  it  is  not  because  you  are  becoming  plain. 
You  do  not  mean  it,  I  know  ;  but  there  is  a  disingenuousness 
in  remarks  of  this  sort  that  is  to  me  exceedingly  distasteful. 
Avoid  the  shadow  of  hypocrisy.  Women  are  subject  to  it — 
and  it  is  quite  innocent,  no  doubt.     I  won't  lecture  you. 

"  My  cousin  Algernon  is  here  with  me.  He  has  not 
spoken  of  jouv  sister.  Your  fears  in  that  direction  are 
quite  unnecessary.  He  is  attached  to  a  female  cousin  of  ours, 
a  very  handsome  person,  witty,  and  highly  sensible,  who 
dresses  as  well  as  the  lady  you  talk  about  having  seen  one 
day  in  Wrexby  Church.  Her  lady's-maid  is  a  French- 
woman, which  accounts  for  it.  You  have  not  forgotten  the 
boulevards  ? 

"  I  wish  you  to  go  on  with  your  lessons  in  French. 
Educate  yourself,  and  you  will  rise  superior  to  these  dis- 
tressing complaints.  I  recommend  you  to  read  the  news- 
papers daily.  Buy  nice  picture-books,  if  the  papers  are  too 
matter-of-fact  for  you.  By  looking  eternally  inward,  you  teach 
yourself  to  fret,  and  the  consequence  is,  or  will  be,  that  you 
wither.  No  constitution  can  stand  it.  All  the  ladies  here 
take  an  interest  in  Parliamentary  affairs.  They  can  talk  to 
men  upon  men's  theraes.  It  is  impossible  to  explain  to  you 
how  wearisome  an  everlasting  nursery  prattle  becomes.  The 
idea  that  men  ought  never  to  tire  of  it  is  founded  on  some 
queer  belief  that  they  are  not  mortal. 

"  Parliament  opens  in  February.  My  father  wishes  me  to 
stand  for  Selborough.     If  he  or  some  one  will  do  the  talking 


178  EHODA  FLEMINO. 

to  the  traflcsmen,  and  provide  the  beer  and  the  bribes,  I  have 
no  objoftioii.  In  that  case  my  Law  goes  to  the  winds.  I'm 
bound  to  make  a  show  of  obedience,  for  he  has  scarcely  got 
over  my  suninior's  trip.  He  holds  me  a  piisouer  to  him  for 
heaven  knows  how  long — it  may  be  months. 

"  As  for  the  heiress  whom  he  has  here  to  make  a  match 
for  mo,  he  and  I  mnst  have  a  pitched  battle  about  her  by 
and  by.  At  present  my  purse  insists  upon  my  not  offending 
him.  When  will  old  men  understand  young  ones  ?  I  burn 
your  letters,  and  beg  you  to  follow  the  example.  Old  letters 
are  the  dreainest  ghosts  in  the  world,  and  you  cannot  keep 
more  treacherous  rubbish  in  your  possession.  A  discovery 
would  exactly  ruin  me. 

■'  Your  purchase  of  a  black- velvet  bonnet  with  pink  rib- 
ands, was  very  suitable.  Or  did  you  write  '  blue'  ribands  ? 
But  your  complexion  can  bear  anything. 

"  You  talk  of  being  annoyed  when  you  walk  out.  Re- 
member, that  no  woman  who  knows  at  all  how  to  conduct 
herself  need  for  one  moment  suffer  annoyance. 

"  What  is  the  '  feeling'  3^ou  speak  of  ?  I  cannot  conceive 
any  '  feeling'  that  should  make  you  helpless  when  you  con- 
sider that  you  are  insulted.  There  are  women  who  have 
natural  dignity,  and  women  who  have  none. 

"  You  ask  the  names  of  the  gentlemen  here: — Lord  Carey, 
Lord  Wi])pein  (both  leave  to-morrow),  !Sir  John  Capes, 
Colonel  Barclay,  Lord  Suckling.  The  ladies: — Mrs.  Gos- 
ling, Miss  Gosling,  Lady  Carey.  Mrs.  Anybody — to  any 
extent. 

"  They  pluck  hen's  feathers  all  day  and  half  the  night.  I 
see  them  out,  and  make  my  bow  to  the  next  batch  of  visitors, 
and  then  I  dont  know  where  I  am. 

"Head  poetry,  if  it  makes  up  for  my  absence,  as  you  say. 
Repeat  it  aloud,  minding  the  pulsation  of  feet.  Go  to  the 
theatre  now  and  then,  and  take  your  landlady  with  you.  If 
she's  a  cat,  lit  one  of  youi*  dresses  on  the  servant  girl,  and 
take  her.  You  only  want  a  companion — a  dummy  will  do. 
Take  a  box  and  sit  behind  the  curtain,  back  to  the 
audience. 

"  I  wrofe  to  my  wine-merchant  to  send  Champagne  and 
Slierry.  I  lioj)e  he  diil :  the  Champagne  in  pints  and  half- 
pints  ;  if  not,  return  them  instantly.     I  know  how  Economy, 


EDWARD  TAKES  HIS  COURSE.  179 

sitting  solitary,  poor  thing,  would  not  dare  to  let  the  froth 

of  a  whole'  pint  bottle  fly  out. 

"  Be  an  obedient  girl  and  please  me. 

"  Your  stern  tutor, 

"  Edward  the  First." 

He  read  this  epistle  twice  over  to  satisfy  himself  that  it 
was  a  warm  effusion,  and  not  too  tender;  and  it  satisfied 
him.  By  a  stretch  of  imagination,  he  could  feel  that  it 
represented  him  to  her  as  in  a  higher  atmosphere,  con- 
siderate for  her,  and  not  so  intimate  that  she  could  deem  her 
spirit  to  be  sharing  it.  Another  dose  of  silence  succeeded 
this  discreet  adniinisti-ation  of  speech. 

Dahlia  replied  with  letter  upon  letter ;  blindly  impas- 
sioned, and  again  singularly  cold;  but  with  no  reproaches. 
She  was  studying,  she  said.  Her  head  ached  a  little  ;  only 
a  little.  She  walked ;  she  read  poetry ;  she  begged  him  to 
pardon  her  for  not  drinking  wine.  She  was  glad  that  he 
burnt  her  kite  >  which  were  so  foolish  that  if  she  could 
have  the  cou  ag  to  look  at  them  after  they  were  written, 
they  would  ne.  ^r  be  sent.  He  was  slightly  revolted  by  one 
exclamation:  "  How  ambitious  you  are!" 

"  Because  I  cannot  sit  down  for  life  in  a  London  lodging- 
house  !"  he  thought,  and  eyed  her  distantly  as  a  poor  good 
creature  who  had  ah-eady  accepted  her  distinctive  residence 
in  another  sphere  than  his.  From  such  a  perception  of  her 
humanity,  it  was  natural  that  his  livelier  sense  of  it  should 
diminish.  He  felt  that  he  had  awakened;  and  he  shook 
her  off. 

And  now  he  set  to  work  to  subdue  Mrs.  Lovell.  His  owti 
subjugation  was  the  first  fruit  of  his  effort.  It  was  quite 
unacknowledged  by  him :  but  when  two  are  at  this  game, 
the  question  arises — "  Which  can  live  without  the  other  ?" 
and  horrid  pangs  smote  him  to  hear  her  telling  musically  of 
the  places  she  was  journeying  to,  the  men  she  would  see, 
and  the  chances  of  their  meeting  again  before  he  was  married 
to  the  heiress  Adeline. 

"  I  have  yet  to  learn  that  I  am  engaged  to  her,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Lovell  gave  him  a  fixed  look : 

"  She  has  a  half-brother." 

He  stepped  away  in  a  fury. 

N  2 


180  RTTODA  FLEMmfJ. 

"Devil!"  ho  muttered,  absolutely  muttered  it,  knowing 
tliat  lie  fooled  and  frowned  like  a  stage- hero  tin  stagey 
liei'oics.  "  You  think  to  hound  me  into  this  brutal  stu- 
pidity of  fighting,  do  you  ?  Upon  my  honour,"  he  added  in 
his  natural  manner,  "  I  believe  she  does,  though!" 

Rut  the  look  became  his  companion.  It  touched  and 
called  up  great  vanity  in  his  breast,  and  not  till  then  could 
ho  placably  confront  the  look.  He  tried  a  course  of  reading. 
Every  morning  he  was  down  in  the  library,  lookiiig  old  in 
an  arm-chair  over  his  book  ;  an  intent  abstracted  figure. 

Airs.  Lovell  would  enter  and  eye  him  carelessly  ;  utter 
little  commonplaces  and  go  forth.  The  silly  words  struck 
on  his  brain.  The  book  seemed  hollow;  sounded  hollow  as 
he  shut  it.  This  woman  breathed  of  active  st-riving  life. 
She  was  a  spur  to  black  energies;  a  plumed  glory;  impul- 
sive to  chivalry.  Everything  she  said  and  did  held  men  in 
scales,  and  approved  or  rejected  them. 

Intoxication  followed  this  new  conception  of  her.  He  lost 
altogether  his  right  judgement ;  even  the  cooler  after- 
thoughts were  lost.  What  sort  of  man  had  Harry  been, 
her  first  husband  ?  A  dashing  soldier,  a  quarrelsome  duel- 
list, a  (lull  (log.  But,  dull  to  her  ?  She,  at  least,  was 
reverential  to  tlie  memory  of  him. 

She  lisped  now  and  then  of  "  my  husband,"  very  prettily, 
and  with  intense  provocation ;  and  yet  she  Avorshipped 
brains.  Evidently  she  thirsted  for  that  rare  union  of  brains 
and  bravery  in  a  man,  and  would  never  surrender  till  she 
had  discovered  it.  Perhaps  she  fancied  it  did  not  exist.  It 
might  be  that  she  took  Edward  as  the  type  of  brains,  and 
Harry  of  bravery,  and  supjjosed  that  the  two  qualities  were 
not  to  be  had  actually  in  couj  unction. 

Her  admiration  of  his  (Edward's)  wit,  therefore,  only 
sti-engthened  the  idea  she  entertained  of  his  deficiency  in 
that  other  companion  manly  virtue. 

Edward  mast  have  been  possessed,  for  he  ground  his  teeth 
villanously  in  supposing  himself  the  victiin  of  this  oiit- 
rageous  suspicion.  And  how  to  prove  it  false  ?  How  to 
prove  it  false  in  a  civilized  age,  among  sober-living  men  and 
women,  with  whom  the  violent  assertion  of  bravery  Avould 
certainly  imperil  his  claim  to  brains  r"  His  head  was  like  a 
stew-pan  over  the  fire,  bubbling  endlessly. 

He  railed  at  her  to  Algernon,  and  astonished    the  youth 


EDWAKD  TAKES  HIS  COURSE.  ISl 

wTio  fhoiiglit  t"hem  in  a  fair  way  to  make  an  alliance.  "  Milk 
and  capsicums,"  he  called  her,  and  compared  her  to  bloody 
mustard-haired  Saxon  Queens  of  history,  and  was  childishly 
spiteful.  And  Mrs.  Lovell  had  it  all  reported  to  her,  as  he 
was  quite  aware. 

"  The  woman  seeking  for  an  anomaly  wants  a  master." 

With  this  pompous  aphorism,  he  finished  his  reading  of 
the  fair  Enigma. 

Words  big  in  the  mouth  serve  their  turn  when  there  is  no 
way  of  satisfying  the  intelligence. 

To  be  her  master,  however,  one  must  not  begin  by  writhing 
as  her  slave. 

The  attempt  to  read  an  inscrutable  woman  allows  her  to 
dominate  us  too  commandingly.  So  the  lordly  mind  takes 
her  in  a  hard  grasp,  cracks  the  shell,  and  drawing  forth  the 
kernel,  says,  "  This  was  all  the  puzzle." 

Doubtless  it  is  the  fate  which  women  like  Mrs.  Lovell 
provoke.  The  truth  was,  that  she  could  read  a  character 
when  it  was  under  her  eyes  ;  but  its  yesterday  and  to- 
morrow were  a  blank.  She  had  no  imaginative  hold  on 
anything.  For  which  reason  she  was  always  requiring 
tansrible  sio^ns  of  virtues  that  she  esteemed. 

The  thirst  for  the  shows  of  valour  and  wit  was  insane 
with  her ;  but  she  asked  for  nothing  that  she  herself  di  1  not 
give  in  abundance,  and  with  beauty  superadded.  Her  pro- 
pensity to  bet  sprang-  of  her  passion  for  combat ;  she  was  not 
greedy  of  money,  or  reckless  in  using  it ;  but  a  difference  of 
opinion  arising,  her  instinct  forcibly  prompted  her  to  back 
her  own.  If  the  stake  was  the  risk  of  a  lover's  life,  she  was 
ready  to  put  down  the  stake,  and  would  have  marvelled 
contemptuously  at  the  lover  complaining.  "  Sheep  !  sheep  !" 
she  thought  of  those  who  dared  not  fight,  and  had  a  waver- 
ing tendency  to  afiix  the  epithet  to  those  who  simply  did  not 
fight. 

Withal,  Mrs.  Lovell  was  a  sensible  person ;  clear-headed 
and  shrewd  ;  logical,  too,  more  than  the  run  of  her  sex :  I 
may  say,  profoundly  practical.  So  much  so,  that  she  sys- 
tematically reserved  the  after-years  for  enlightenment  upon 
two  or  three  doubts  of  herself,  which  struck  her  in  the  calm 
of  her  spirit,  from  time  to  time. 

"  France,"  Edward  called  her,  in  one  of  their  colloquies. 
It   was    an   illuminating   title.      She   liked    the   French 


182  nnODA  PLEMIXG. 

(tlinntrli  no  one  was  keener  for  the  honour  of  her  oa\ti 
country  in  opposition  to  them),  she  liked  their  splendid 
boyishness,  tlu-ir  iiin-quallod  devotion,  theii'  merciless  in- 
tellects ;  the  oneness  ui"  the  nation  when  the  sword  is  bare 
and  pointing  to  chivalrous  enterprise. 

Slie  liked  their  line  varnish  of  sentiment,  which  appears 
BO  much  on  the  surface  that  Englishmen  suppose  it  to  have 
nowhere  any  depth  ;  as  if  the  outer  coating  must  necessarily 
exhaust  the  stock,  or  as  if  what  is  at  the  source  of  our  being 
can  never  be  made  visible. 

.She  had  her  imagination  of  them  as  of  a  streaming  banner 
in  the  jaws  of  storm,  with  snows  among  the  cloud-rents  and 
\ightuing  in  the  chasms: — which  image  may  be  accounted 
for  by  the  fact  that  when  a  girl  she  had  in  adoration  kissed 
the  feet  of  Napoleon,  the  giant  of  the  later  ghosts  of  history. 

It  was  a  princely  com])lim(>Tit.  She  received  it  curtseying, 
and  disarmed  the  intended  irony.  In  re])ly,  she  called  him 
'  Great  Britain.'  1  regret  to  say  that  he  stood  less  proudly 
for  his  nation.  Indeed,  ue  flushed.  He  remembered  articles 
girding  at  the  policy  of  peace  at  any  price,  and  half  felt  that 
Mrs.  Lovell  had  meant  to  crown  him  with  a  Quaker's  hat. 
His  title  fell  speedily  into  disuse ;  but,  "  Yes,  France,"  and 
"  JSTo,  France,"  continued,  his  effort  being  to  fix  the  epithet 
to  frivolous  allusions,  from  which  her  ingenuity  rescued  it 
honourably. 

Had  she  ever  been  in  love?  He  asked  her  the  question. 
She  stabbed  him  with  so  straightforward  an  ailirniative  that 
he  could  not  conceal  the  wound. 

"  Have  I  not  been  married  ?"  she  said. 

He  began  to  experience  the  fretful  ciaving  to  see  the  ante- 
cedents of  the  torturing  woman  spread  out  before  him.  He 
conceived  a  passion  for  her  girlhood.  He  begged  for  portraits 
of  her  as  a  girl.  She  showed  him  the  ])ortrait  of  Harry 
Lovell  in  a  locket.  He  held  the  locket  between  his  fingei-s. 
Dead  Harry  was  kept  very  warm.  Could  brains  ever  touch 
her  emotions  as  bravery  had  done  ? 

"  AV^here  are  the  brains  I  boast  of  ?"  he  groaned,  in  the 
midst  of  these  sensational  extravagances. 

The  lull  of  action  was  soon  to  be  disturbed.  A  letter  waa 
brought  to  him. 

He  opened  it  and  read— 


EDWARD  TAKES  HIS  COURSE.  183 

**  Mr.  Edward  Blancove, 

"  When  you  rode  by  me  under  Fairly  Park,  I  did  not 
know  you.  T  can  give  you  a  medical  certificate  tliat  since 
then  I  have  been  in  the  doctor's  hands.  I  know  you  now.  I 
call  upon  you  to  meet  me,  with  Avhat  weapons  you  like  best, 
to  prove  that  you  are  not  a  midnight  assassin.  The  place 
shall  be  where  you  choose  to  appoint.  If  you  decline,  I  will 
make  you  publicly  acknowledge  what  you  have  done.  If  you 
answer,  that  I  am  not  a  gentleman  and  you  are  one,  I  say 
that  you  have  attacked  me  in  the  dark,  when  I  was  on  horse- 
back, and  you  are  now  my  equal,  if  I  like  to  think  so.  You 
will  not  talk  about  the  law  after  that  night.  The  man  you 
employed  I  may  punish  or  I  may  leave,  though  he  struck  the 
blow.  But  I  will  meet  you.  To-morrow,  a  friend  of  mine, 
who  is  a  major  in  the  army,  will  be  down  here,  and  will  call 
on  you  from  me  ;  or  on  any  friend  of  yours  you  are  pleased  to 
name.  I  will  not  let  you  escape.  Whether  I  shall  face  a 
guilty  man  in  you,  God  knows ;  but  I  know  I  have  a  right  to 
call  upon  you  to  face  me. 

"  1  am.  Sir, 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  Robert  Eccles." 

Edward's  face  grew  signally  white  over  the  contents  of 
this  unprecedented  challenge,  The  letter  had  been  brouglit 
in  to  him  at  the  breakfast  table.  "  Read  it,  read  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Lovell,  seeing  him  put  it  by ;  and  he  had  read  it  with 
her  eyes  on  him. 

The  man  seemed  to  him  a  man  of  claws,  who  clutched  like 
a  demon.  Would  nothing  quiet  him  ?  Edward  thought  of 
bribes  for  the  sake  of  peace ;  but  a  second  glance  at  the 
letter  assured  his  sagacious  mind  that  bribes  were  powerless 
in  this  man's  case ;  neither  bribes  nor  sticks  were  of  service. 
Departure  from  Fairly  would  avail  as  little:  the  tenacio  is 
devil  would  follow  him  to  London  ;  and  what  was  worse,  as 
a  hound  from  Dahlia's  family  he  was  now  on  the  right 
scent,  and  appeared  to  know  that  he  was.  How  was  a 
scandal  to  be  avoided  ?  By  leaving  Fairly  instantly  for  any 
place  on  earth,  he  could  not  avoid  leaving  the  man  behind ; 
and  if  the  man  saw  Mrs.  Lovell  again,  her  instincts  as  a 
woman  of  her  class  were  not  to  be  trusted.  As  likely  as  not 
ehe  would  side  with  the  ruffian  ;  that  is,  she  would  think  he 


184  RHODA  FLEMING. 

had  been  "wroncfod — ppi-haps  think  that  he  oucrht  to  have 
been  met.  There  is  the  democratic  virus  secret  in  every 
vs'omaii ;  it  was  predominant  in  Mrs.  Lovell,  according  to 
Edward's  observation  of  the  lady.  The  riprhts  of  individual 
maidiood  were,  as  he  anjij^rily  perceived,  likely  to  be  recopf- 
nized  by  her  spirit,  if  only  they  were  stoutly  asserted ;  and 
that  in  defiance  of  station,  of  reason,  of  all  the  ideas  incul- 
cated by  education  and  society. 

"  I  believe  she'll  expect  me  to  ficrht  him,"  he  exclaimed. 
At  least,  he  knew  she  would  despise  him  if  he  avoided  the 
brutal  challeng'e  without  some  show  of  dignity. 

On  rising  from  the  table,  he  drew  Algernon  aside.  It 
was  an  insuffei-able  thought  that  he  was  compelled  to  take 
his  brainless  cousin  into  his  conlidence,  even  to  the  extent  of 
Boliciting  Ins  council,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it.  In  vain 
Edward  asked  himself  why  he  had  been  such  an  idiot  as  to 
stain  his  hands  with  the  affair  at  all.  He  atti-ibuted  it  to 
his  regard  for  Algernon.  Having  commonly  the  sway  of  his 
passions,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  forgetting  that  he  ever  lost 
control  of  them ;  and  the  fierce  black  mood,  engendei-ed  by 
Robert's  audacious  persecution,  had  passed  from  hiti  memory, 
though  it  was  now  recalled  in  full  force. 

"  See  what  a  mess  you  drag  a  man  into,"  he  said. 

Algernon  read  a  line  of  the  letter.  "  Oh,  confound  this 
inferaal  fellow  !"  he  shouted,  in  sickly  wonderment ;  and 
snapped  shai-p,  "  I  drag  you  into  the  mess  ?  Upon  my 
honour,  your  coolness,  Ned,  is  the  biggest  part  about  you,  if 
it  isn't  the  best." 

Edward's  grip  fixed  on  him,  for  they  were  only  just  out  of 
earshot  of  ]\Irs.  Lovell.  They  went  upstairs,  and  Algernon 
read  the  letter  through. 

"  '  Midnight  assas.sin,'  "  he  repeated  ;  "  by  Jove  !  how 
beastly  that  sounds.  It's  a  lie  that  you  attacked  him  in  the 
dark,  Ned— eh  ?" 

"  I  did  not  attack  him  at  all,"  said  Edward.  "  He  behaved 
like  a  ruffian  to  you,  and  desei'ved  shooting  like  a  mad  dog." 

"  Did  you,  though,"  Algernon  ])ersisted  in  questioning, 
despite  his  cousin's  manifest  shyness  of  the  subject;  "  tlid 
you  really  go  out  with  that  man  Sedgett,  and  stop  this  fellow 
on  horse])ack  ?  He  speaks  of  a  blow.  You  didn't  strike  him, 
did  you,  Ned  ?     I  mean  not  a  hit,  except  in  self-defence  ?" 

Edward  bit  his  lip,  and  shot  a  level  reflective  side-look, 


EDWARD  TAKES  BTS  COURSE.  185 

peculiar  to  him  when  meditating.  He  wished  his  cousin  to 
propose  that  Mrs.  Lovell  should  see  the  letter.  He  felt  that 
by  consulting  with  her,  he  could  bring-  her  to  apprehend  the 
common  sense  of  the  position,  and  be  so  far  responsible  for 
what  he  might  do,  that  she  would  not  dare  to  let  her  heart 
be  rebellious  toward  him  subsequently.  If  he  himself  went 
to  her  it  would  look  too  much  like  pleading  for  her  inter- 
cession. The  subtle  directness  of  the  woman's  spirit  had  to 
be  guarded  against  at  every  point. 

He  replied  to  Algernon  : 

"What  I  did  was  on  youi'  behalf.  Oblige  me  by  not 
interrogating  me.  I  give  you  my  positive  assurance  that  I 
encouraged  no  unmanly  assault  on  him." 

"  That'll  do,  that'll  do,"  said  Algernon,  eager  not  to  hear 
more,  lest  there  should  come  an  explanation  of  what  he  had 
heard.  "  Of  course,  then,  this  fellow  has  no  right — the  devil's 
in  him  !  If  we  could  only  make  him  murder  Sedgett  and  get 
hanged  for  it !  He's  got  a  friend  who's  a  major  in  the  army  ? 
Oh,  come,  I  say ;  this  is  pitching  it  too  stiff.  I  shall  insist 
upon  seeing  his  commission.  Really,  Ned,  1  can't  advise. 
I'll  stand  by  you,  that  you  may  be  sure  of — stand  by  you ; 
but  what  the  deuce  to  say  to  help  you  !  Go  before  the  magis- 
trate. .  .  .  Get  Lord  Elling  to  issue  a  warrant  to  prevent  a 
breach  of  the  peace.  No ;  that  won't  do.  This  quack  of  a 
major  in  the  army's  to  call  to-morrow.  I  don't  mind,  if  he 
shows  his  credentials  all  clear,  amusing  him  in  any  manner 
he  likes.  I  can't  see  the  best  scheme.  Hang  it,  Ned,  it's 
very  hard  upon  me  to  ask  me  to  do  the  thinking.  I  always 
go  to  Peggy  Lovell  when  I'm  bothered.  There — Mrs.  Lovell ! 
Mistress  Lovell !  Madame  !  my  Princess  Lovell,  if  you  want 
me  to  pronounce  respectable  titles  to  her  name.  You're  too 
proud  to  ask  a  woman  to  help  you,  ain't  you,  Ned  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Edward,  mildly.  "  In  some  cases  their  wits 
are  keen  enough.  One  doesn't  like  to  drag  her  into  such  a 
business." 

"  Hm,"  went  Algernon.  *'  I  don't  think  she's  so  innocent 
of  it  as  you  fancy." 

"  She's  very  clever,"  said  Edward. 

"She's  awfully  clever!"  cried  Algernon.  He  paused  to 
give  room  for  more  praises  of  her,  and  then  pursued  :  "  She's 
so  kind.  That's  what  you  don't  credit  her  for.  I'll  go  and 
consult  her,  if  positively  you  don't  mind.     Trust  her  for 


186 


EnODA  PLEMINO. 


keeping'  if,  qnirt.     Come,  Ned,  she's  sure  to  tit  upon  the  right 
thiuLT.     ^l;iy  J  tror" 

"  It's  your  all'air,  more  than  mine,"  said  Edward. 

"Have  it  so,  if  you  like,"  returned  the  good-natnred 
fellow.  "  It's  worth  while  consulting  her,  just  to  see  how 
neatly  she'll  take  it.  Bless  your  heart,  she  won't  know  a 
bit  more  than  you  want  her  to  know.  I'm  oS  to  her  now." 
He  carried  away  the  letter. 

Edward's  own  practical  judgement  would  have  advised  his 
instantly  sending  a  short  reply  to  Robert,  explaining  that  he 
was  simply  in  conversation  with  the  man  Scdgett,  Avlien 
Robert,  the  old  enemy  of  the  latter,  rode  by,  an<l  that,  while 
regretting  Sedgett's  proceedings, he  could  not  be  held  account- 
able for  them.  But  it  was  useless  to  think  of  acting  iu 
accordance  with  his  reason.  Mrs.  Lovell  was  queen,  and  sat 
in  reason's  place.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  to  conciliate 
her  approbation  of  his  conduct  in  this  dilemma,  by  submit- 
ting to  the  decidexl  unpleasantness  of  talking  with  her  on  a 
subject  that  fevered  him,  and  of  allowing  her  to  suppose  that 
he  required  the  help  of  her  sagacity.  Such  was  the  humi- 
liation imposed  upon  him.  Further  than  this  he  had  nothing 
to  fear,  for  no  woinan  could  fail  to  be  overborne  by  the  mas- 
culine force  of  his  brain  in  an  argument.  The  humiliation 
was  bad  enough,  and  half  tempted  him  to  think  that  his  old 
dream  of  woi-king  as  a  hard  student,  with  fair  and  gentle 
Dahlia  ministering  to  his  comforts,  and  too  happy  to  call 
herself  his,  was  best.  Was  it  not,  after  one  particular  step 
had  been  taken,  the  manliest  life  he  could  have  shaped  out  ? 
Or  did  he  imagine  it  so  at  this  moment,  because  he  was  a 
coward,  and  because  pride,  and  vanity,  and  ferocity  alter- 
nately had  to  screw  him  up  to  meet  the  consequences  of  his 
acts,  instead  of  the  great  heart  ? 

If  a  coward.  Dahlia  was  his  home,  his  refuge,  his  sanctuary. 
Mrs.  Lovell  was  perdition  and  its  scorching  fires  to  a  man 
with  a  taint  of  coAvardice  in  him. 

Whatever  he  was,  Edward's  vanity  would  not  pei'mit  him 
to  acknowledge  himself  that.  Still,  he  did  not  call  on  his 
heart  to  play  ins])iriting  music.  His  ideas  turned  to  subter- 
fuge. His  aim  wa.s  to  keep  the  good  opinion  of  Mrs.  Lovell 
while  he  quieted  Robert ;  and  he  entered  straightway  upon 
that  veiy  y)erilous  course,  the  attempt,  for  the  sake  of  winning 
her,  to  bewilder  and  deceive  a  woman's  instincts. 


MAJOR  PERCY  WARINa.  187 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MAJOR     PERCY    WARING. 

Otkr  a  fire  in  one  o£  the  npper  sitting-rooms  of  fhe  Pilot 
Inn,  Robert  sat  with  his  friend,  the  beloved  friend  of  whom  he 
used  to  speak  to  Dahlia  and  Rhoda,  too  proudly  not  to  seem 
betraying  the  weaker  point  of  pride.  This  friend  had  accepted 
the  title  from  a  private  soldier  of  his  regiment ;  to  be  capable 
of  doing  which,  a  man  must  be  both  officer  and  gentleman  in 
a  sterner  and  less  liberal  sense  than  is  expressed  by  that 
everlasting  phrase  in  the  mouth  of  the  military  parrot. 
Major  Percy  Waring,  the  son  of  a  clergyman,  was  a  working 
soldier,  a  slayer,  if  you  will,  from  pure  love  of  the  profession 
of  arms,  and  all  the  while  the  sweetest  and  gentlest  of  men. 
I  call  hira  a  working  soldier  in  opposition  to  the  parading 
soldier,  the  coxcomb  in  uniform,  the  hero  by  accident,  and 
the  martial  boys  of  wealth  and  station,  who  are  of  the  army 
of  England.  He  studied  war  when  1  he  trumpet  slumbered, 
and  had  no  place  but  in  the  field  when  it  sounded.  To  him 
the  honour  of  England  was  as  a  babe  in  his  arms  :  he  hugged 
it  like  a  mother.  He  knew  the  military  history  of  every 
regiment  in  the  service.  Disasters  even  of  old  date  brought 
groans  from  him.  This  enthusiastic  face  was  singularly 
soft  when  the  large  dark  eyes  were  set  musing.  The  cast 
of  it  being  such,  sometimes  in  speaking  of  a  happy  play  of 
artillery  upon  congregated  masses,  an  odd  effect  was  pro- 
daced.  Ordinarily,  the  cleai-  features  were  reflective  almost 
to  sadness,  in  the  absence  of  animation  ;  but  an  exulting 
energy  for  action  would  now  and  then  light  them  up.  Hilarity 
of  spirit  did  not  belong  to  him.  He  was,  nevertheless,  a 
cheerful  talker,  as  could  be  seen  in  the  glad  ear  given  to  him 
by  Robert.  Between  them  it  was  '  Robert '  and  '  Percy.' 
Robert  had  rescued  him  from  drowning  on  the  East  Anglian 
shore,  and  the  friendship  which  ensued  was  one  chief  reason 
for  Robert's  quitting  the  post  of  trooper  and  buying  himself 
oiit.  It  was  against  Percy's  advice,  who  wanted  to  purchase 
a  commission  for  him  ;  but  the  humbler  man  had  the  sturdy 
scruples  of  his  rank  regarding  money,  and  his  I'omantic  illu- 
Bions  being  dispersed  by  an  experience  of  the  absolute  class- 
distinctions  in  the  service,  Robert,  that  he  might  prevent  his 


188  EHODA  FLEMING. 

friend  from  violating  them,  made  use  of  his  annt's  lecraey  to 
obtain  release.  Since  tliat  date  they  had  not  met  ;  but  their 
friendship  was  fast.  Percy  had  recently  paid  a  visit  to 
Qui'eii  Anne's  Farm,  where  he  had  seen  Klioda  and  heard  of 
Hubert's  departure.  Knowing  llobert's  birthplace,  he  had 
come  on  to  Warbeach,  and  had  seen  Jonathan  Eccles,  who 
referred  him  to  !Mrs.  Boulbv,  licenced  seller  of  brandy,  if  he 
wished  to  enjoy  an  interview  with  Robert  I'Jccles. 

"  Tlie  old  man  sent  up  regularly  every  day  to  inquire  how 
his  son  was  faring  on  the  road  to  the  next  world,"  said 
Robert,  laughing.  "  lie's  tough  old  English  oak.  I'm  just 
to  him  what  I  appear  at  the  time.  It's  better  having  him 
like  that  than  one  of  your  jerky  fathers,  who  seem  to  belong 
to  the  stage  of  a  theatre.  Everybody  respects  my  old  dad, 
and  I  can  laugh  at  what  he  thinks  of  me.  I've  only  to  let 
him  know  I've  served  an  apprenticeship  in  farming,  and  can 
make  use  of  some  of  his  ideas — sound  !  every  one  of  'era ; 
every  one  of  'em  sound  !     And  that  I  say  of  my  own  father." 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  him  ?"  Percy  asked. 

"  I  want  to  forj^et  all  about  Kent  and  drown  the  countv," 
said  Robert.  "  And  I'm  going  to,  as  far  as  my  memory's 
concerned." 

Percy  waited  for  some  seconds.  He  comprehended  per- 
fectly this  state  of  wilfulness  in  an  uneducated  sensitive 
man. 

"  She  has  a  steadfast  look  in  her  face,  Robert.  She  doesn't 
look  as  if  she  trifled.  I've  really  never  seen  a  finer  franker 
girl  in  my  life,  if  faces  are  to  be  trusted." 

"  It's  t'other  way.  There's  no  trilling  in  her  case.  She's 
frank.     She  fires  at  you  point  blank." 

"  You  never  mentioned  her  in  your  letters  to  me,  Robert." 

"No.  I  had  a  suspicion  from  the  tiriit  I  was  going  to  be 
a  fool  about  the  girl." 

Percy  struck  his  hand. 

"You  didn't  do  quite  right." 

"  Do  you  say  that '?" 

Robert  silenced  him  with  this  question,  for  there  "was  a 
•wonum  in  Percy's  antecedent  history. 

The  subject  being  dismissed,  they  talked  more  freely. 
Robei-t  related  the  tale  of  Dahlia,  and  of  his  doings  at 
Fairly. 

"  Oh !  we  agree,"  he  said,  noting  a  curious   smile   that 


MAJOR  PERCY  WARING.  189 

Percy  could  not  smooth  out  of  sight.  "  I  know  it  was  odd 
conduct.  I  do  respect  mj  superiors  ;  but,  believe  me  or  not, 
Percy,  injury  done  to  a  girl  makes  me  mad,  and  I  can't  hold 
back  ;  and  she's  the  sister  of  the  girl  you  saw.  By  heaven  ! 
if  it  weren't  for  my  head  getting  blind  now  when  my  blood 
boils,  I've  the  mind  to  walk  straight  up  to  the  house  and 
screw  the  secret  out  of  one  of  them.  What  I  say  is — Is 
there  a  Grod  up  aloft  ?  Then,  he  sees  all,  and  society  is 
vapour,  and  while  I  feel  the  spirit  in  me  to  do  it,  I  go 
straight  at  my  aim." 

"  If,  at  the  same  time,  there's  no  brandy  in  you,"  said 
Percy,  "  which  would  stop  your  seeing  clear  or  going  straight." 

The  suggestion  was  a  cruel  shock.  Robert  nodded. 
"  That's  true.  I  suppose  it's  my  bad  education  that  won't 
let  me  keep  cool.  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  after  it.  I  shout 
and  thunder,  and  the  end  of  it  is,  I  go  away  and  think  about 
the  same  of  Robert  Eccles  that  I've  frightened  other  people 
into  thinking.  Perhaps  you'll  think  me  to  blame  in  this 
case  ?  One  of  those  Mr.  Blancoves — not  the  one  you've 
heard  of — struck  me  on  the  field  before  a  lady.  I  bore  it. 
It  was  part  of  what  I'd  gone  out  to  meet.  I  was  riding 
home  late  at  night,  and  he  stood  at  the  corner  of  the  lane, 
with  an  old  enemy  of  mine,  and  a  sad  cur  that  is  !  Sedgett's 
his  name — N^ic,  the  Christian  part  of  it.  There'd  just  come 
a  sharp  snowfall  from  the  north,  and  the  moonlight  shot 
over  the  flying  edge  of  the  rear-cloud ;  and  I  saw  Sedgett 
with  a  stick  in  his  hand ;  but  the  gentleman  had  no  stick. 
I'll  give  Mr.  Edward  Blancove  credit  for  not  meaning  to  be 
active  in  a  dastardly  assault. 

"  But  why  was  he  in  consultation  with  my  enemy  ?  And 
he  let  my  enemy — by  the  way,  Percy,  you  dislike  that  sort 
of  talk  of  '  my  enemy,'  I  know.  You  like  it  put  plain  and 
simple  :  but  down  in  these  old  parts  again,  I  catch  at  old 
habits ;  and  I'm  always  a  worse  man  when  I  haven't  seen 
you  for  a  time.  Sedgett,  say.  Sedgett,  as  I  passed,  made  a 
sweep  at  my  horse's  knees,  and  took  them  a  little  over  the 
fetlock.  The  beast  reared.  While  I  was  holding  on  he 
swung  a  blow  at  me,  and  took  me  here." 

Robert  touched  his  head.  "  I  dropped  like  a  horse- 
chestnut  from  the  tree.  When  T  recovered,  I  was  lying  in 
the  lane.  I  think  I  was  there  flat,  face  to  the  ground,  for 
half  an  hour,  quite  sensible,  looking  at  the  pretty  colour  of 


190  EnODA  FLEMING. 

my  blood  on  the  snow.  The  horse  was  gone.  I  just  manaprod 
to  reel  along  to  this  place,  where  tlmre's  always  a  home  lor 
me.  Now,  will  you  believe  it  possible  ?  I  went  out  next 
day:  I  saw  Mr.  Edwaid  Blancove,  and  I  might  have  seen  a 
baby  and  felt  the  same  to  it.  I  didn't  know  him  a  bit. 
Yesterday  morning  your  letter  was  sent  up  from  Sutton 
farm.  Sonu-how,  the  moment  I'd  read  it,  I  i-enicinbered  his 
face.  I  sent  him  woixl  there  was  a  nuilter  to  be  settled 
between  us.     You  think  I  was  wrong  ?" 

Major  Waring  had  set  a  deliberately  calculating  eye  on 
him. 

"  I  want  to  hear  more,"  he  said. 

*'  You  think  I  have  no  claim  to  challenge  a  man  in  his 
position  ?" 

"  Answer  me  first,  Robert.  You  think  this  Mr.  Blancove 
helped,  or  instigated  this  man  Sedgett  in  his  attack  upon 
you  ?  ' 

"  I  haven't  a  doubt  that  he  did." 

"  It's  not  plain  evidence." 

"  It's  good  circumstantial  evidence." 

"  At  any  rate,  you  are  perhaps  justified  in  thinking  him 
capable  of  this :  though  the  rule  is,  to  believe  nothing 
against  a  gentleman  until  it  is  flatly  proved — when  we 
drum  him  out  of  the  ranks.  But,  if  you  can  fancy  it  true, 
would  you  put  yourself  upon  an  equal  footing  with  him  ?" 

"  I  would,"  said  Robert. 

*'Thcn  you  accejit  his  code  of  morals." 

"  That's  too  shi-ewd  for  me  :  but  men  who  preach  against 
duelling,  or  any  kind  of  man-to-man  in  hot  earnest,  always 
fence  in  that  way." 

"  I  detest  duelling,"  !^^ajor  Waring  remarked.  "  I  don't 
like  a  system  that  permits  knaves  and  fools  to  exercise  a 
claim  to  imperil  the  lives  of  useful  men.  Let  me  observe, 
that  I  am  not  a  preacher  against  it.  I  think  you  know  my 
opinions  ;  and  they  are  not  quite  those  of  the  English  magis- 
trate,  and  other  mild  persons  w^ho  are  wrathful  at  the  prac- 
tice u])on  any  pretence.  Keep  to  the  other  discussion.  You 
challenge  a  man;  you  admit  him  your  etjual.  But  why  do  I 
argue  with  you  ?  I  know  your  mind  as  well  as  my  own. 
You  have  some  other  idea  in  the  background." 

"  I  feel  that  he's  the  guilty  man,"  saiil  Robert. 

"You  feel  called  upon  to  punish  him." 


MAJOR  TERCY  WARING.  191 

"  No.  "Wait :  he  will  not  fio'lit ;  but  T  have  him  and  I'll 
hold  him.  I  feel  he's  the  man  Avho  has  injured  this  girl,  by 
every  witness  of  facts  that  I  can  bring  together  ;  and  as  for 
the  other  young  fellow  I  led  such  a  dog's  life  down  here,  I 
could  beg  his  pardon.  This  one's  eje  met  mine.  I  saw  it 
wouldn't  have  stopped  short  of  murder — opportunity  given. 
Why  ?     Because  I  pressed  on  the  right  spring.     I'm  like  a 

woman  in  seeing  some  things.     He  shall  repent.     By ! 

Slap  me  on  the  face,  Percy.  I've  taken  to  brandy  and  to 
swearing.  Damn  the  girl  who  made  me  forget  good  lessons  ! 
Bless  her  heart,  I  mean.  She  saw  you,  did  she  ?  Did  she 
colour  when  she  heard  your  name  ?" 

"  Very  much,"  said  Major  Waring. 

"  Was  dressed  in ?"" 

"  Black,  with  a  crimson  ribbon  round  the  collar.** 

Robert  waved  the  image  from  his  eyes. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  dream  of  her.  Peace,  and  babies,  and 
farming,  and  pride  in  myself  with  a  woman  by  my  side — 
there !  You've  seen  her — all  that's  gone.  I  might  as  Avell 
ask  the  East  wind  to  blow  West.  Her  face  is  set  the  other 
way.  Of  course,  the  nature  and  value  of  a  man  is  shown 
by  how  he  takes  this  sort  of  pain  ;  and  hark  at  me  !  I'm 
yelling.  I  thought  I  was  cured.  I  looked  up  into  the  eyes 
of  a  lady  ten  times  sweeter — when  ? — somewhen  !  I've  lost 
dates.  But  here's  the  girl  at  me  again.  She  cuddles  into 
me — slips  her  hand  into  my  breast  and  tugs  at  strings 
there.  I  can't  help  talking  to  you  about  her,  now  we've 
got  over  the  first  step.     I'll  soon  give  it  up. 

"  She  wore  a  red  ribbon  ?  If  it  had  been  Spring,  you'd 
have  seen  roses.  Oh !  what  a  stanch  heart  that  girl  has. 
Where  she  sets  it,  mind  !  Her  life  where  that  creature  sets 
her  heart !  But,  for  me,  not  a  penny  of  comfort !  Now  for 
a  whole  week  of  her,  day  and  night,  in  that  black  dress  with 
the  coloured  ribbon.  On  she  goes  :  walking  to  church ; 
sitting  at  table  ;  looking  out  of  the  window  ! — 

"  Will  you  believe  I  thought  those  thick  eyebrows  of  hers 
ugly  once — a  tremendous  long  time  ago.  Yes ;  but  what 
eyes  she  has  under  them !  And  if  she  looks  tender,  one 
corner  of  her  mouth  goes  quivering ;  and  the  eyes  ai-e  steady, 
so  that  it  looks  like  some  wonderful  bit  of  mercy. 

"  I  think  of  that  true-hearted  creature  praying  and  long, 
ing  for  her  sister,   and  fearing  there's  shame — that's  whj* 


192  RHODA  FLEMING. 

she  hates  mo.  I  wouldn't  say  I  was  certain  her  sister  had 
not  falk-n  into  a  pit.  I  couldn't.  I  was  an  idiot.  I  thought 
I  wouldn't  bo  a  hypocrite.  I  mii,''ht  have  said  I  believed 
as  she  did.  There  she  stood  ready  to  be  taken — ready  to 
have  given  hei-self  to  me,  if  I  had  only  spoken  a  word  !  It 
was  a  moment  of  heaven,  and  God  the  Father  could  not  give 
it  to  me  twice !     The  chance  has  gone. 

"  Oh  !  what  a  miserable  mad  dog  I  am  to  gabble  on  in 
this  way. Come  in  !  come  in,  mother." 

Mi-s.  IJoulby  entered,  with  soft  footsteps,  bearing  a  letter. 

"  From  the  Park,"  she  said,  and  commenced  chiding 
Robert  gently,  to  establish  her  right  to  do  it  %\nth  solemnity. 

"  He  will  talk,  sir.  He's  one  o'  them  that  either  they 
talk  or  they  hang  silent,  and  no  middle  way  will  they  take  ; 
and  the  doctor's  their  foe,  and  health  they  despise ;  and 
since  this  cruel  blow,  obstinacy  do  seem  to  have  been  knocked 
like  a  nail  into  his  head  so  fast,  persuasion  have  not  a  atom 
o'  power  over  him." 

"  There  must  be  talking  when  friends  meet,  ma'am,"  said 
Major  Waring. 

"  Ah  !"  returned  the  widow,  "  if  it  wouldn't  be  all  on  one 
side." 

"I've  done  now,  mother,"  said  Robert. 

Mrs.  Boulby  I'ctired,  and  Robert  opened  the  letter. 

It  ran  thus  : —  , 

Sir, 
"  I  am  glad  you  have  done  me  the  favour  of  addressing 
me  temperately,  so  that  I  am  permitted  to  clear  myself  of 
an  unjust  and  most  unpleasant  imputation.  I  will,  if  you 
please,  see  you,  or  your  friend ;  to  whom  pei-haps  I  shall 
better  be  able  to  certify  how  unfounded  is  the  charge  you 
bring  against  me.  I  will  call  upon  you  at  the  Pilot  Inn, 
where  I  hear  that  you  are  staying ;  or,  if  you  pi-efer  it,  I 
will  attend  to  any  appointment  you  may  choose  to  direct 
elsewhere.  But  it  must  be  immediate,  as  the  term  of  my 
I'esiduuce  in  this  neighbourhood  is  limited, 

♦*Iam, 

"  Sir, 
*•  Yours  obediently, 

"  Edward  Blancovb.** 


MAJOR  PERCY  WARING.  193 

Jlajor  "Waring  read  the  lines  with  a  critical  attention 

"  It  seems  fair  and  open,"  was  his  remark. 

"  Here,"  Robert  struck  his  breast,  "  here's  what  answers 
him.     What  shall  I  do  ?     Shall  I  tell  him  to  come  ?" 

"  Write  to  say  that  your  friend  will  meet  him  at  a  stated 
place." 

Robert  saw  his  prey  escapinsf.     "  Fm  not  to  see  him  ?" 

"  ^o.  The  decent  is  the  right  way  in  such  cases.  You 
must  leave  it  to  me.  This  will  be  the  proper  method  between 
gentlemen." 

"  It  appears  to  my  idea,"  said  Robert,  "  that  gentlemen 
are  always,  somehow,  stopped  from  taking  the  straight-ahead 
measure." 

"  You,"  Percy  rejoined,  "  are  like  a  civilian  before  a 
fortress.  Either  he  finds  it  so  easy  that  he  can  walk  into  it, 
or  he  gives  it  up  in  despair  as  unassailable.  You  have  fol- 
lowed your  own  devices,  and  what  have  you  accomplished  ?" 

"  He  will  lie  to  you  smoothly." 

"  Smoothly  or  not,  if  I  discover  that  he  has  spoken  falsely, 
lie  is  answerable  to  me." 

"  To  me,  Percy." 

"  No ;  to  me.  He  can  elude  you  ;  and  will  be  acquitted 
by  the  general  verdict.  But  when  he  becomes  answerable 
to  me,  his  honour,  in  the  conventional,  which  is  here  the 
practical,  sense,  is  at  stake,  and  I  have  him." 

"  I  see  that.  Yes  ;  he  can  refuse  to  fight  me,"  Robert 
sighed.  "  Hey,  Lord  !  it's  a  heavy  world  when  we  come  to 
methods.  But  will  you,  Percy,  will  you  put  it  to  him  at  the 
end  of  your  fist — '  Did  you  deceive  the  girl,  and  do  you 
know  where  the  girl  now  is  ?'  Why,  gi'cat  heaven  !  we  only 
ask  to  know  where  she  is.  She  may  have  been  murdered. 
She's  hidden  from  her  family.  Let  him  confess,  and  let 
him  go." 

Major  Waring  shook  his  head.  "You  see  like  a  woman 
perhaps,  Robert.  You  certainly  talk  like  a  woman.  I  will 
state  your  suspicions.  When  I  have  done  so,  I  am  bound  to 
accept  his  reply.  If  we  discover  it  to  have  been  false,  I 
have  my  remedy." 

"  Won't  you  perceive,  that  it  isn't  my  object  to  punish  him 
by  and  by,  but  to  tear  the  secret  out  of  him  on  the  spot — 
now — instantly,"  Robert  cried. 

"  Ipei'ceive  your  object,  and  you  have  experienced  some  of 

0 


194  RHODA  FLEMING. 

the  results  of  jour  system.  It's  the  primitive  action  of  an 
appeal  to  the  god  of  combats,  that  is  exploded  in  these  days. 
You  have  no  course  but  to  take  his  word." 

"  She  said  " — Robert  struck  liis  knee — "  she  said  I  should 
have  the  p^irl's  address.  She  said  she  would  see  her.  She 
])ledged  that  to  me.  I'm  sj)eaking  of  the  lady  up  at  Fairly. 
Come!  things  got  clearer.  If  she  knows  where  Dahlia  is, 
■who  told  her  'f  This  Mr.  Algernon — not  Edward  Blancove 
— was  seen  with  Dahlia  in  a  box  at  the  Playhouse.  He  was 
there  with  Dahlia,  yet  I  don't  think  him  the  guilty  man. 
There's  a  finger  of  liglit  upon  that  other." 

"  Who  is  this  lady  ?"  Major  Waring  asked,  with  lifted 
eyebrows. 

"  Mrs.  Lovell." 

At  the  name,  ^fajor  Waring  sat  stricken. 

"Lovell !"  he  repeated,  under  his  breath.  **  Lovell !  Was 
bIic  ever  m  India  r"' 

"  I  dont  know,  indeed." 

*'  Is  she  a  widow  ?" 

*'  Ay  ;  that  I've  heard." 

"  Describe  her." 

Robert  entered  upon  the  tfisTc  with  a  dozen  headlong 
exclamations,  and  very  justly  concluded  by  saying  that  he 
could  give  no  idea  of  her ;  but  his  friend  apparently  had 
gleaned  sufliciont. 

Major  Waring's  face  was  touched  by  a  strange  pallor,  and 
liis  smile  had  Aanished.  He  ran  his  fingers  through  his 
hair,  clutching  it  in  a  knot,  as  lie  sat  eyeing  the  red  chasm 
in  the  fire,  where  the  light  of  old  days  and  wild  memories 
hangs  as  in  a  crumbling  world. 

Robert  was  aware  of  thei-e  being  a  sadness  in  Percy's  life, 
and  that  he  had  loved  a  woman  and  awakened  from  his 
passion.  Her  name  was  unknown  to  him.  In  that  matter, 
his  natural  delicacy  and  his  deference  to  Pei'cy  had  always 
checked  him  from  sounding  the  subject  closely.  He  miglit 
be,  as  he  had  said,  keen  as  a  woman  where  his  own  instincts 
•were  in  action ;  but  they  were  ineffective  in  guessing  at  the 
cause  for  Percy's  sudden  depression. 

"She  said — this  lady,  Mvs.  Lovell,  whoever  she  may  be — 
she  said  you  should  have  the  girl's  address  :  gave  you  that 
plodg(>  of  her  woi'd  ?"  Perc}'  spoke,  half  meditating,  "  How 
did  this  haj)pen  ?     When  did  you  see  her?" 


MAJOR  PEECY  WARING.  11)5 

Ro})ert  related  the  incident  of  his  meeting-  with  her,  and 
her  effort  to  be  a  peacemaker,  but  made  no  allusion  to  Mrs. 
Boulby's  tale  of  the  bet. 

"  A  peacemaker !"  Percy  interjected.     "  She  rides  well  ?" 

"  Best  horsewoman  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,"  was  Robert's 
ready  answer. 

Majo]'  Waring  brushed  at  his  forehead,  as  in  impatience 
of  thought. 

"  You  must  write  two  letters:  one  to  this  Mrs.  Lovell. 
Say,  you  are  about  to  leave  the  place,  and  remind  her  of  her 
promise.  It's  incomprehensible ;  but  never  mind.  Write 
that  first.  Then  to  the  man.  Say  that  your  friend — by  the 
Tvay,  this  Mrs.  Lovell  has  small  hands,  has  she  ?  I  mean, 
peculiarly  small  ?  Did  you  notice,  or  not  ?  I  may  know 
her.  Never  mind.  Write  to  the  man.  Say — don't  Avrite 
down  my  name — say  that  I  will  meet  him."  Percy  spoke 
on  as  in  a  dream.  "  Appoint  any  place  and  hour.  To- 
morrow at  ten,  down  by  the  river — the  bridge.  Write 
briefly.  Thank  him  for  his  offer  to  afford  you  explanations. 
Don't  argue  it  with  me  any  more.  Wi'ite  both  the  letters 
straight  off." 

His  back  was  to  Robert  as  he  uttered  the  injunction. 
Robert  took  pen  and  paper,  and  did  as  he  was  bidden,  with 
all  the  punctilious  obedience  of  a  man  who  consents  per- 
force to  see  a  better  scheme  abandoned. 

One  effect  of  the  equality  existing  between  these  two 
of  diverse  rank  in  life  and  perfect  delicacy  of  heart,  was, 
that  the  moment  Percy  assumed  the  lead,  Robert  never 
disp  ited  it.  Muttering  simjjly  that  he  was  incapable  of 
Avriting  except  when  he  was  in  a  passion,  he  managed  to 
produce  what,  in  Percy's  ejes,  were  satisfactory  epistles, 
though  Robert  had  horrible  misgivings  in  regard  to  his 
letter  to  Mrs.  Lovell — the  wording  of  it,  the  cast  of  the 
sentences,  even  down  to  the  character  of  the  handwriting. 
These  missives  were  despatched  immediately. 

"  You  are  sure  she  said  that  ?"  Major  Waring  inquired 
more  than  once  during  the  afternoon,  and  Robert  assured 
him  that  Mrs.  Lovell  had  given  him  her  word.  He  grew 
very  positive,  and  put  it  on  his  honour  that  she  had  said  it. 

"  You  may  have  heard  incorrectly." 

"  I've  got  the  words  burning  inside  me,"  said  Robert. 

They  walked  together,  before  dark,  to  Sutton  Farm,  but 

o2 


156  RnoDA  FLEMING. 

Jonathan  Ecolcs  was  abroad  in  his  fields,  and  their  welcome 
was  from  ^listress  Anne,  wliora  i^lajor  Waring  had  not 
power  to  melt ;  the  moment  he  began  speaking  ])raise  of 
Robert,  she  closed  her  mouth  tight  and  crossed  her   wrists 

meekly. 

••  i  see,"  said  Major  Waring,  as  they  left  the  farm,  "  your 
aunt  is  of  the  godly  who  have  no  forgiveness." 

"  I'm  afraid  so,"  cried  Robert.  "  Cold  blood  never  will 
come  to  an  understanding  with  hot  blood,  and  the  old  lady's 
is  like  frozen  milk.  She's  right  in  her  way,  I  dare  say.  I 
don't  blame  her.     Her  piety's  right  enough,  take  it  as  you 

find  it." 

Mrs.  Boulby  had  a  sagacious  notion  that  gentlemen  always 
dined  well  every  day  of  their  lives,  and  claimed  that  much 
from  Providence  as  their  due.  She  had  exerted  herself  to 
spread  a  neat  little  repast  for  ]\Iajor  Waring,  and  waited  on 
the  friends  herself :  grieving  considerably  to  observe  that 
the  major  failed  in  his  duty  as  a  gentleman,  as  far  as  the 
relish  of  eating  was  concerned. 

"  But,"  she  said  below  at  her  bar,  "he  smokes  the  beauti- 
fullest-smelling  cigars,  and  drinks  coffee  made  in  his  own 
way.  He's  very  particular."  Which  was  reckoned  to  be  in 
Major  Waring's  favour. 

The  hour  was  near  midnight  when  she  came  into  the  room, 
bearing  another  letter  from  the  Park.  She  thumped  it  on 
the  table,  ruffling  and  making  that  pretence  at  the  controlling 
of  her  bosom  which  precedes  a  feminine  storm.  Her  indig- 
nation was  caused  by  a  communication  delivered  by  Dick 
Curtis,  in  the  parlour  underneath,  to  the  eliect  that  Nico- 
demus  Sedgett  was  not  to  be  heard  of  in  the  neighbourhood. 

Robert  laughed  at  her,  and  called  her  Hebrew  woman— 
eye-for-eye  and  tooth-for-tooth  woman. 

"  Leave  real  rascals  to  the  Lord  above,  mother.  He's  safe 
to  punish  them.  They've  stepped  outside  the  chances. 
That's  my  idea.  I  wouldn't  go  out  of  my  way  to  kick  them — 
not  1 1  It's  the  half-and-half  villains  we've  got  to  dispose  of. 
They're  the  mischief,  old  lady." 

l*ercy,  however,  asked  some  questions  about  Sedgett,  and 
seemed  to  think  his  disappearance  singular.  He  had  been 
cxaniiiiing  the  handwriting  of  the  superscription  to  the  letter. 
His  face  was  Hushed  as  he  tossed  it  for  Robert  to  open.    Mrs. 


MAJOR  PERCY  WARTNG.  197 

Boulby  dropped  lier  departing  curtsey,  and  Robert  read  out, 
with  odd  pauses  and  puzzled  emphasis  : 

"  Mrs.  Lovell  has  received  the  letter  which  Mr.  Robert 
Eccles  has  addressed  to  her,  and  regrets  that  a  misconception 
should  have  arisen  from  anything  that  was  uttered  during 
their  interview.  The  allusions  are  obscure,  and  Mrs.  Lovell 
can  only  remai^k,  that  she  is  pained  if  she  at  all  misled  Mr. 
Eccles  in  what  she  either  spoke  or  promised.  She  is  not 
aware  that  she  can  be  of  any  service  to  him.  Should  such 
an  occasion  pi-esent  itself,  Mr.  Eccles  may  rest  assured  that 
she  will  not  fail  to  avail  herself  of  it,  and  do  her  utmost  to 
redeem  a  pledge  to  which  he  has  apparently  attached  a 
meaning  she  can  in  no  way  account  for  or  comprehend." 

When  Robert  had  finished,  "  It's  like  a  female  lawyer," 
he  said.  "  That  woman  speaking,  and  that  woman  writing, 
they're  two  different  creatures — upon  my  soul,  they  are ! 
Quick,  shai'p,  to  the  point,  when  she  speaks  ;  and  read  this  ' 
Can  I  venture  to  say  of  a  lady,  she's  a  liar  ?" 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  not,"  said  Major  Waring,  who 
took  the  letter  in  his  hand  and  seemed  to  study  it.  After 
which  he  transferred  it  to  his  pocket. 

"To-morrow?  To-morrow's  Sunday,"  he  observed.  "We 
will  go  to  church  to-morrow."     His  eyes  glittered. 

"Why,  I'm  hardly  in  the  mood,"  Robert  protested. 
"  I  haven't  had  the  habit  latterly." 

"  Keep  up  the  habit,"  said  Percy.  "  It's  a  good  thing  for 
men  like  you." 

"  ]iut  what  sort  of  a  fellow  am  I  to  be  showing  myself 
there  among  all  the  people  who've  been  talking  about  me — • 
and  the  people  up  at  Fairly !"  Robert  burst  out  in  horror  of 
the  prospect.  "  I  shall  be  a  sight  among  the  people.  Percy, 
upon  my  honour,  I  don't  think  I  well  can.  I'll  read  the 
Bible  at  home  if  you  like." 

"  jSTo  ;  you'll  do  penance,"  said  Major  Waring. 

"  Are  you  meaning  it '?" 

"The  penance  will  be  ten  times  greater  on  my  part, 
believe  me.'* 

Robert  fancied  him  to  be  referring  to  some  idea  of  mocking 
the  interposition  of  religion. 


10'^  BnODA  FLEMING, 

"  Thon  we'll  po  to  Upton  Church,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  mind 
it  iit  Upton." 

"  I  intend  to  po  to  the  church  attended  bj  '  The  Family,* 
ns  we  .sav  in  our  jiarts;  and  you  must  come  with  me  to 
Warbeach." 

Claspincr  one  hand  across  his  forehead,  Robert  cried,  "You 
couldn't  ask  me  to  do  a  thiu'i;'  1  liate  so  much.  Go,  and  sit, 
and  look  sheepish,  and  sing  hymns  with  the  people  I've  been 
badgering ;  and  everybody  seeing  me  !  How  can  it  be  any- 
thing to  you  like  what  it  is  to  me  ?" 

•'  You  have  only  to  take  my  word  for  it  that  it  is,  and  far 
more,"  said  Major  Waring,  sinking  his  voice.  "  Come ;  it 
won't  do  you  any  harm  to  make  an  appointment  to  meet  your 
conscience  now  and  then.  You  will  never  be  ruled  by  reason, 
and  your  feelings  have  to  teach  you  what  you  learn.  At  any 
rate,  it's  my  re(piest." 

This  terminated  the  colloquy  upon  that  topic.  Robert 
looked  forward  to  a  penitential  Sabbath-day. 

"She  is  a  widow  still,"  thought  Major  Waring,  as  he  stood 
alone  in  his  bed-room,  and,  drawing  aside  the  curtains  of  his 
window,  looked  uc  at  the  white  moon. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


WARBEACH    VILLAGE    CHURCH. 


When  the  sun  takes  to  shining  in  winter,  and  the  South- 
west to  blowing,  the  corners  of  the  eai-th  cannot  hide  fi-om 
him — the  mornings  are  like  halls  full  of  light.  Robert  had 
spent  his  hopes  upon  a  wet  day  tliat  Avould  have  kept  the 
congregation  sparse  and  the  guests  at  Fairly  absent  from 
public  devotions. 

He  perceiveil  at  once  that  he  was  doomed  to  be  under 
everybody's  eyes  when  he  walked  down  the  aisle,  for  eveiy- 
body  would  attend  the  service  on  such  a  morning  as  this. 

Already  he  had  met  his  conscience,  in  so  far  as  that  he 
Bhunncui  asking  Pcicy  again  Avhat  was  the  reason  for  their 


WARBEACH  VILLAGE  CHURCH.  199 

going  to  church,  and  he  had  not  the  courage  to  petition  to  go 
in  the  afternoon  instead  of  the  mornino:. 

.    The  question,  "  Are  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  then  ?"  sang 
in  his  ears  as  a  retort  ready  made. 

There  was  no  help  for  it ;  so  he  set  about  assisting  his  in- 
genuity to  make  the  best  appearance  possible — brushing  his 
hat  and  coat  with  extraordinary  care. 

Percy  got  him  to  point  out  the  spot  designated  for  the 
meeting,  and  telling  him  to  wait  in  the  Warbeach  chui-ch- 
yard,  or  within  sight  of  it,  strolled  off  in  the  dii'ection  of 
the  river.  His  simple  neatness  and  quiet  gentlemanly  air 
abashed  Robei-t,  and  lured  him  from  his  intense  conception. 
of  abstract  right  and  wrong,  which  had  hitherto  encouraged 
and  incited  him,  so  that  he  became  more  than  ever  crest- 
fallen at  the  pi'ospect  of  meeting  the  eyes  of  the  church 
people,  and  with  the  trembling  sensitiveness  of  a  woman  who 
weighs  the  merits  of  a  lover  when  passion  is  having  one  of 
its  fatal  pauses,  he  looked  at  himself,  and  compared  himself 
with  the  class  of  persons  he  had  outraged,  and  tried  to  think 
better  of  himself,  and  to  justify  himself,  and  sturdily  reject 
comparisons.  They  would  not  be  beaten  back.  His  enemies 
had  never  suggested  them,  but  they  were  forced  on  him  by 
the  aspect  of  his  friend. 

Any  man  who  takes  the  law  into  his  own  hands,  and 
chooses  to  stand  against  what  is  conventionally  deemed  fitting: 
— against  the  world,  as  we  say,  is  open  to  these  moods  of 
degrading  humility.  Robert  waited  for  the  sound  of  the 
bells  with  the  emotions  of  a  common  culprit.  Could  he  have 
been  driven  to  the  church  and  deposited  suddenly  in  his  pew, 
his  mind  would  have  been  easier.  It  was  the  walking  there, 
the  walking  down  the  aisle,  the  sense  of  his  being  the  fellow 
who  had  matched  himself  against  those  well-attired  gentle- 
men, which  entirely  confused  him.  And  not  exactly  for  his 
own  sake — for  Percy's  partly.  He  sickened  at  the  thought 
of  being  seen  by  Major  Waring's  side.  His  best  suit  and 
his  hat  were  good  enough,  as  far  as  they  went,  only  he  did 
not  feel  that  he  wore  them — he  could  not  divine  how  it  was 
— with  a  proper  air,  an  air  of  signal  comfort.  In  fact,  the 
graceful  negligence  of  an  English  gentleman's  manner  had 
been  unexpectedly  revealed  to  him ;  and  it  was  strange,  he 
reflected,  that  Percy  never  appeared  to  observe  how  deficient 
he  was,  and  could  still  treat  him  as  an  equal,  call  him  by  hia 


200  EIIODA  FLEMIXa. 

Christian  nnme,   and  not   object  to  be    seen   ■svith   him   in 
pu])lic. 

Ji()l)iTt  ditl  not  tliiiik  at  the  same  time  that  illness  had 
impoverishod  his  blood.  Yonr  sensational  beings  must  keep 
a  strong  and  a  good  flow  of  blood  in  tlieir  veins  to  be  always 
on  a  level  with  tlio  occasion  which  they  piovoke.  He  remem- 
bered wonderingly  that  he  had  used  to  be  easy  in  gait  and 
ready  of  wit  when  walking  from  (^)ueen  Anne's  Farm  to 
"Wrexby  village  church.  Why  was  he  a  diflerent  creature 
now  'i     He  could  not  answer  the  question. 

Two  or  three  of  his  Warbeach  acquaintances  passed  him 
in  the  lanes.  They  gave  him  good  day,  and  spoke  kindly, 
and  with  pleasant  friendly  looks. 

Their  impression  when  they  left  him  was  that  he  was 
growing  proud. 

The  jolly  butcher  of  Warbeach,  who  had  a  hearty  affection 
for  him,  insisted  upon  cla])ping  his  hand,  and  showing  him 
to  ^li-s.  Billing,  and  showing  their  two  young  ones  to  Robei-t. 
With  a  kiss  to  the  children,  and  a  nod,  Robei-t  let  them 
pass. 

H6re  and  there,  he  was  hailed  by  yonng  fellows  who  wore 
their  hats  on  one  side,  and  jaunty-fashioned  coats — Sunday 
being  their  own  bright  day  of  exhibition.  He  took  no  notice 
of  the  greetings. 

He  tried  to  feel  an  interest  in  the  robins  and  twittering 
wrens,  and  called  to  mind  verses  about  little  birds,  and  kept 
repeating  them,  behind  a  face  that  chilled  every  friendly 
man  who  knew  him. 

Moody  the  boat-builder  asked  him,  with  a  stare,  if  he  was 
going  to  church,  and  on  Robert's  replying  that  perhaps  he 
was,  said  "  I'm  dashed  !"  and  it  was  especially  discouiaging 
to  one  in  Robert's  condition. 

Further  to  inspirit  him,  he  met  Jonathan  Eccles,  who  put 
the  same  question  to  him,  and  getting  the  same  answer, 
tui-ned  shai-p  round  and  walked  homewai-d. 

Robert  hful  a  gi-eat  feeling  of  relief  when  the  bells  were 
silent,  and  sauntered  with  a  superior  comjiosure  round  the 
holly  and  laurel  bushes  concealing  the  church  Not  once 
did  he  ponder  on  the  meeting  between  ^lajoi-  Waring  and 
!Mr.  Edward  Rlancove,  until  he  beheld  the  former  standing 
alone  by  the  churchyard  gate,  and  then  he  thought  more  of 
the  empty  churchyaid  and  the  absence  of  cairiages,   pro- 


WAEBEACH  VILLAGE  CHUECH.  201 

claiming  tlie  dreadful  admonition  that  he  must  immediately 
consider  as  to  the  best  way  of  comporting  himself  before  an 
observant  and  censorious  congregation. 

Major  Waring  remarked,  "  You  are  late." 

"  Have  I  kept  you  waiting  ?"  said  Robert. 

*'  Not  long.     They  are  reading  the  lessons.** 

«  Is  it  full  inside  ?" 

**  I  dare  say  it  is." 

*'  You  have  seen  him,  I  suppose  ?" 

**  Oh  yes  ;  I  have  seen  him." 

Percy  was  short  in  his  speech,  and  pale  as  Robert  had 
never  seen  him  before.  He  requested  hastily  to  be  told  the 
situation  of  Lord  Elling's  pew. 

"  Don't  you  think  of  going  into  the  gallery  ?"  said  Robert, 
but  received  no  answer,  and  with  an  inward  moan  of  "  Good 
God !  they'll  think  I've  come  here  in  a  sort  of  repentance," 
he  found  himself  walking  down  the  aisle ;  and  presently,  to 
his  amazement,  settled  in  front  of  the  Fairly  pew,  and  with 
his  eyes  on  Mrs.  Lovell. 

What  was  the  matter  with  her  ?  Was  she  ill  ?  Robert 
forgot  his  own  tribulation  in  an  instant.  Her  face  was  like 
marble,  and  as  she  stood  with  the  prayer-book  in  her  hand, 
her  head  swayed  over  it :  her  lips  made  a  faint  eifort  at 
smiling,  and  she  sat  quietly  down,  and  was  concealed. 
Algernon  and  Sir  John  Capes  were  in  the  pew  beside  her, 
as  well  as  Lady  Elling,  who,  with  a  backward-turned  hand 
and  disregarding  countenance,  reached  out  her  smelling- 
bottle. 

"  Is  this  because  she  fancies  I  know  of  her  having-  made  a 
bet  of  me  ?"  thought  Robert,  and  it  was  not  his  vanity 
prompted  the  supposition,  though  his  vanity  was  awakened 
by  it.  "  Or  is  she  ashamed  of  4ier  falsehood  ?"  he  thought 
again,  and  forgave  her  at  the  sight  of  her  sweet  pale  face. 
The  singing  of  the  hymns  made  her  evident  suffering  seem 
holy  as  a  martyr's.  He  scarce  had  the  power  to  conduct 
himself  reverently,  so  intense  was  his  longing  to  show  her 
his  sympathy. 

"  That  is  Mrs.  Lovell — did  you  see  her  just  now  ?"  he 
whispered. 

"  Ah  ?"  said  Major  Waring. 

**  I'm  afraid  she  ha^  fainted.'* 

"Possibly." 


202  RHODA  FLEMING. 

But  !Mrs.  Lovell  had  not  fainted.  She  rose  when  the  time 
for  rising-  came  attain,  and  lixing  her  eyes  with  a  grave  de- 
/otional  collectedness  upon  the  vicar  at  his  readinL,'-dc.sk, 
looked  quite  mistri-ssoi:  herself — but  mistress  of  hei-self  only 
when  she  kept  thorn  so  fixed.  When  they  moved,  it  was  as 
if  they  had  relinciuished  some  pillar  of  support,  and  they 
wavered ;  livid  shades  chased  her  face,  like  the  rain-clouds 
on  a  gvcy  lake- water.  Some  one  fronting  her  weighed  on 
her  eyelids.  This  was  evident.  Robert  thought  her  a 
miracle  of  beauty.  She  was  in  coloui*  like  days  he  had  noted 
thoughtfully:  days  with  purple  storm,  and  with  golden 
horizon  edges.  She  had  on  a  bonnet  of  black  velvet,  with  a 
delicate  array  of  white  lace,  that  was  not  siilfered  to  disturb 
the  contrast  to  her  warm  yellow  hair.  Her  little  gloved 
hands  were  both  holding  the  book  ;  at  times  she  ])erused  it, 
or,  the  oppression  becoming  unendurable,  turned  her  gaze 
toward  the  corner  of  the  chancel,  and  thence  once  more  to  her 
book.  Robert  rejected  all  idea  of  his  being  in  any  way  the 
cause  of  her  strange  perturbation.  He  cast  a  glance  at  his 
friend.  He  had  begun  to  nourish  a  slight  suspicion  ;  but  it 
was  too  slight  to  bear  up  against  Percy's  self-possession ;  for, 
as  he  understood  the  story,  Percy  had  been  the  suiferer,  and 
the  lady  had  escaped  without  a  wound.  How,  then,  if  such 
wcfe  the  case,  would  she  be  showing  emotion  thus  deep, 
while  he  stood  before  her  with  perfect  self-command  ? 

Robert  believed  that  if  he  might  look  upon  that  adorable 
face  foi"  many  days  together,  he  could  thrust  Rhoda's  from 
his  memory.  The  sermon  was  not  long  enough  for  him; 
and  he  was  angry  with  Percy  for  rising  before  there  was  any 
movement  for  departure  in  the  Fairly  pew.  In  the  door- 
way of  the  chui'ch  Pei-cy  took  his  arm,  and  asked  him  to 
point  out  the  family  tombstone.  They  stood  by  it,  when 
Lady  Elling  and  Mrs.  Lovell  came  forth  and  walked  to  the 
cari'iage,  receiving  respectful  salutes  from  the  pco})le  of 
Wai'beach. 

"  How  lovely  she  is  !"  said  Robert. 

"  Do  you  tliiiik  her  handsome  r'"  said  Ma  joi-  Waring. 

"  I  can't  understand  such  a  creature  dying."  Robert 
Bte])ped  over  an  open  grave. 

The  expression  of  Percy's  eyes  was  bitter. 

"I  should  imagine  she  thinks  it  just  as  impossible." 

The  Warbcach  villagers  waited  for  Lady  EUing's  caiTiage 


WAKBEACH  VILLAGE  CHURCH.  203 

to  roll  away,  and  with  a  last  glance  at  Robert,  they  too  went 
off  in  gossiping  groups.  Robert's  penance  was  over,  and  he 
could  not  refraiu  from  asking  what  good  his  coming  to 
church  had  done. 

"  I    can't   assist   you,"    said  Percy.     "  By  the  way,   Mr. 
Blancove  denies  everything.     He  thinks  you  mad.     He  pro- 
mises, now  that  you  have  adopted  reasunable  measures,  to  ' 
speak  to  his  cousin,  and  help,  as  far  as  he  can,  to  discover 
the  address  you  are  in  seai'ch  of." 

"  That's  ail  F"  cried  Robert. 

"  That  is  all." 

"  Then  where  am  I  a  bit  farther  than  when  I  began  ?" 

"  You  are  only  at  the  head  of  another  road,  and  a  better 
one." 

"Oh,  why  do  I  ever  give  up  trusting  to  my  right  hand  !" 
Robert  muttered. 

But  the  evening  brought  a  note  to  him  from  Algernon 
Blancove.  It  contained  a  dignified  condemnation  of  Robert's 
previous  insane  behaviour,  and  closed  by  giving  Dahlia's 
address  in  London. 

"  How  on  earth  was  this  brought  about  ?"  Robert  now 
questioned. 

"  It's  singular,  is  it  not  ?"  said  Major  Waring ;  "  but  if 
you  want  a  dog  to  follow  you,  you  don't  pull  it  by  the  collar; 
and  if  you  want  a  potatoe  from  the  earth,  you  sow  the 
potatoe  before  you  begin  digging.  You  are  a  soldier  by 
instinct,  my  good  Robert :  your  first  appeal  is  to  force.  I, 
you  see,  am  a  civilian :  I  invariably  try  the  milder  methods. 
Do  you  start  for  London  to-night  ?  I  remain.  I  wish  to 
look  at  the  neighbourhood." 

Robert  postponed  his  journey  to  the  morrow,  partly  in 
dread  of  his  approaching  interview  with  Dahlia,  but  chiefly 
to  continue  a  little  longer  by  the  side  of  him  whose  gracious 
friendship  gladdened  his  life.  They  paid  a  second  visit  to 
Sutton  farm.  Robert  doggedly  refused  to  let  a  word  be 
said  to  his  father  about  his  havina:  taken  to  farmino-,  and 
Jonathan  listened  to  all  Major  Waring  said  of  his  son  like  a 
man  deferential  to  the  accomplishment  of  speaking,  but  too 
far  off  to  hear  more  than  a  chance  word.  He  talked,  iu 
reply,  quite  cheerfully  of  the  weather  and  the  state  of  the 
ground;  observed  that  the  soil  was  a  perpetual  study,  but 
he  knew  something  of  horses  and  dogs,  and  Yorkshiremen 


204  RUODA  FLEMINO. 

■were  like  Jews  in  the  trouble  they  took  to  over-reaeh  in  a 
barpiin.  "  Wallopim,'  men  is  ])oor  woi-k,  if  you  come  to 
compare  it  •with  wallopinf^  Nature,"  he  said,  and  explained 
that,  according;'  to  his  oj)inion,  "  to  best  a  man  at  buying"  and 
selling  was  as  wholesome  an  occupation  as  frowzlin'  alonj^ 
the  gutters  for  parings  and  strays."  He  himself  preferred 
to  go  to  the  heart  of  things:  "Nature  nuxkes  you  rich,  if 
your  object  is  to  do  the  same  for  her.  Yorkshire  fellows 
never  think  except  of  making  theirselves  rich  by  fattening 
on  your  blood,  like  sheep-ticks."  In  fine,  Jonathan  spoke 
sensibly,  and  abused  Yorkshire,  without  hesitating  to  confess 
that  a  certain  Yorkshireman,  against  whom  he  had  matihed 
his  wits  in  a  purchase  of  horsedesh,  had  given  him  a  lively 
recollection  of  the  encounter. 

Percy  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  his  country.  "  I'll 
tell  you,"  said  Jonathan  :  "  Engli>-hmcn's  business  is  to  go  to 
■war  with  the  elements,  and  so  long  as  we  fight  them,  we're 
in  the  right  academy  for  learnin'  how  the  g;ime  goes.  Our 
vulnerability  commences  when  we  think  we'll  sit  down  and 
eat  the  fruits,  and  if  I  don't  see  signs  o'  that,  se+  me  mole- 
tunnelling.     Self-indulgence  is  the  ruin  of  oui-  time." 

This  was  the  closest  remark  he  made  to  his  relations  Avith 
Robert,  who  informed  him  that  he  was  going  to  London  on 
the  following  day.  Jonathan  shook  his  hand  heartily,  with- 
out  troubling  himself  about  any  inquiries. 

"  There's  so  much  of  that  old  man  in  me,"  said  Robert, 
■when  Percy  praised  him,  on  their  return,  "  that  I  daren't 
call  him  a  Pi-ince  of  an  old  boy :  and  never  a  s])ot  of  rancour 
in  his  soul.  Have  a  claim  on  him — and  there's  your  seat  at 
his  table  :  take  and  offend  him — there's  your  seat  still.  Eat 
and  tlrink,  but  you  don't  get  near  his  heai-t.  I'll  surprise 
him  some  day.     He  fancies  he's  past  surju-ises." 

"  Well,"  said  Percy,  "  you're  younger  than  I  am,  and  may 
think  the  future  belongs  to  you." 

Early  next  morning  they  ]iai-ted.  Robert  was  in  town  by 
noon.  He  lost  no  time  in  hunying  to  the  Western  suburb. 
As  he  neared  the  house  where  he  was  to  believe  Dahlia  to  be 
residing,  he  saw  a  man  pass  tlii-ough  the  leafless  black  shrubs 
by  the  iron  gate;  and  wlieu  he  t'ame  to  the  gate  himself  the 
man  was  at  the  door.  The  door  opened  and  closed  on  this 
mr/n.  It  was  Nicodemus  Sedgett,  or  Robert's  eyes  did  him 
traitorous  service.     He  knocked  at  the  door  violently,  and 


ANTHONY'S  FEAEFUL  TEMPTATION'.  205 

had  to  knock  a  second  and  a  third  time.  Dahh'a  was  denied 
to  him.  He  was  told  that  Mrs.  Ayrton  had  lived  there,  but 
had  left,  and  ner  present  address  was  unknown.  He  asked 
to  be  allowed  to  speak  a  word  to  the  man  who  had  just 
entered  the  house.  No  one  had  entered  for  the  last  two 
hours,  was  the  reply.  Robert  had  an  impulse  to  rush  by 
the  stolid  little  female  liar,  but  Percy's  recent  lesson  to  him 
acted  as  a  restraint;  though,  had  it  been  a  brawny  woman 
or  a  lacquey  in  his  path,  he  would  certainly  have  followed 
his  natural  counsel.  He  turned  away,  lingering  outside  till 
it  was  dusk  and  the  bruise  on  his  head  gave  great  thi^obs, 
and  then  he  footed  desolately  farther  and  farther  from  the 
house.  To  combat  with  evil  in  his  own  country  village  had 
seemed  a  simple  thing  enough,  but  it  appeared  a  superhuman 
task  in  giant  London. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


OF   THE    FEARFUIi   TEMPTATION   WHICH    CAME   UPON   ANTHONY 
HACKBUT,    AND    OF    HIS    MEETING    WITH    DAHLIA. 

It  requires,  happily,  many  years  of  an  ordinary  man's  life 
to  teach  him  to  believe  in  the  exceeding  variety  and  quantity 
of  things  money  can  buy  :  yet,  when  ingenuous  minds  have 
fully  comprehended  the  potent  character  of  the  metal,  they 
are  likely  enough  to  suppose  that  it  will  buy  everything  : 
after  which  comes  the  groaning  anxiety  to  possess  it. 

This  stage  of  experience  is  a  sublime  development  in  the 
great  soals  of  misei'S.  It  is  their  awakening  moment,  and 
it  is  their  first  real  sense  of  a  harvest  being  in  their  hands. 
They  have  begun  under  the  influence  of  the  passion  for 
hoarding,  which  is  but  a  blind  passion  of  the  finger-ends. 
The  idea  that  they  have  got  together,  bit  by  bit,  a  power, 
travels  slowly  up  to  their  heavy  brains.  Once  let  it  be 
grasped,  however,  and  they  clutch  a  god.  They  feed  on 
everybody's  hunger  for  it.  And,  let  us  confess,  they  have 
in  that  a  mighty  feast. 

Anthony  Hackbut  was  not  a  miser.  He  was  merely  a 
saving  old  man.  His  vanity  was,  to  be  thought  a  miser, 
envied  as  a  miser.     He  lived  in  daily  hearing  of  the  sweet 


206  KHODA  FLEMING. 

chink  of  fjold,  and  loved  the  sound,  but  with  a  poetical  love, 
ruthor  than  with  the  sordid  desire  to  amass  gold  ])ieces. 
Tlioiigh  a  saving  old  man,  he  had  his  comforts  ;  and  if  they 
haunted  liim  and  reproached  him  subsequently,  for  indulg- 
ing wayward  a{)|)etites  for  herrings  and  whelks  and  other 
sea-dainties  that  render  up  no  account  to  you  when  they 
have  disa])peared,  he  put  by  copper  and  silver  continually, 
weelvly  and  monttl}-,  and  was  master  of  a  sum. 

He  knew  the  breadth  of  this  sum  witli  accuracy,  and  wliat 
it  would  expand  to  this  day  come  a  year,  and  probably  this 
day  come  five  years.  He  knew  it  only  too  well.  The  sum 
took  no  grand  leaps.  It  increased,  but  did  not  seem  to 
multiply.  And  he  was  breathing  in  the  heart  of  the  place, 
of  all  places  in  the  world,  where  money  did  multiply. 

He  was  the  possessor  of  twelve  hundred  ])ouiids,  solid, 
and  in  haven;  that  is,  the  greater  part  in  the  IJank  of 
England,  and  a  portion  in  Boyne's  Bank.  He  had  besides  a 
few  skirmishing  securities,  and  some  such  bits  of  paper  as 
Algeraon  had  given  him  in  the  public-house  on  that  remark- 
able night  of  his  visit  to  the  theatre. 

These,  when  the  borrowers  were  defaulters  in  their  pay- 
ments and  pleaded  for  an  extension  of  time,  inspired  him 
with  sentiments  of  gi-andeur  that  the  solid  property  could 
not  impart.  Nevertheless,  the  anti-poetical  tendency  within 
him  which  warred  with  the  poetical,  and  set  him  reducing 
whatsoever  he  claimed  to  plain  figures,  made  it  but  a  fitful 
liour  of  satisfaction. 

He  had  only  to  fix  his  mind  upon  Farmer  Fleming's  con- 
ce]ition  of  his  wealth,  to  feel  the  miserable  smallness  of 
what  seemed  legitimately  his  own  ;  and  he  felt  it  with  so 
poignant  an  emotion  that  at  times  his  fears  of  death  were 
excited  by  the  knowledge  of  a  dead  man's  im])otence  to 
suggest  hazy  margins  in  the  final  exposure  of  his  property. 
There  it  would  lie,  dead  as  himself !  contracted,  colliued, 
contemptible ! 

What  would  the  farmer  think  when  he  came  to  hoar  that 
his  brother  Tony's  estate  was  not  able  to  buy  up  (^(uecn 
Anne's  Farm  ? — when,  in  point  of  fact,  he  found  that  he  had 
all  along  been  the  richer  man  of  the  two ! 

Anthony's  comfort  was  in  the  unfaltering  strength  of  his 
constitution.  He  permitted  his  estimate  of  it  to  hint  at  the 
probability  of  his  outlasting  his  brother  William  John,  to 


Anthony's  fearful  temptation.  207 

whom  he  "wished  no  earthly  ill,  hat  only  that  he  should  not 
live  with  a  mitigated  veneration  for  him.  He  was  really 
nourished  by  the  farmer's  gluttonous  delight  in  his  supposed 
piles  of  wealth.  Sometimes,  for  weeks,  he  had  the  gift  of 
thinking  himself  one  of  the  Bank  with  which  he  had  been 
so  long  connected ;  and  afterward  a  wretched  reaction 
set  in. 

It  was  then  that  his  touch  upon  Bank  money  began  to 
intoxicate  him  sti'angely.  He  had  at  times  thousands 
hugged  against  his  bosom,  and  his  heart  swelled  to  the 
money-bags  immense.  He  was  a  dispirited,  but  a  grateful 
creature,  after  he  had  delivered  them  up.  The  delii-ium 
came  by  fits,  as  if  a  devil  lurked  to  surprise  him. 

"  With  this  money,"  said  the  demon,  "  you  might  specu- 
late, and  in  two  days  make  ten  times  the  amount." 

To  which  Anthony  answered :  "  My  character's  worth 
fifty  times  the  amount." 

Such  was  his  reply,  but  he  did  not  think  it.  He  was 
honest,  and  his  honesty  had  become  a  habit ;  but  the  money 
was  the  only  thing  which  acted "  on  his  imagination ;  his 
character  had  attained  to  no  sacred  halo,  and  was  just  worth 
his  annual  income  and  the  respect  of  the  law  for  his  person. 
Ti^e  money  fired  his  brain! 

"Ah!  if  it  was  mine!"  he  sighed,  "If  I  could  call  it 
mine  for  just  forty  or  fifty  hours  !  But  it  ain't,  and  I 
can't." 

He  fought  dogged  battles  with  the  tempter,  and  beat  him 
off  again  and  again.  One  day  he  made  a  truce  with  him  by 
saying  that  if  ever  the  farmer  should  be  in  town  of  an  after- 
noon he  would  steal  ten  minutes  or  so,  and  make  an  appoint- 
ment with  him  somewhere  and  show  him  the  money-bags 
without  a  word  :  let  him  weigh,  and  eye,  and  plunge  his 
hand  in  :  and  then  the  plan  was  for  Anthony  to  pocket  them 
and  talk  of  politics,  while  the  farmer's  mind  was  in  a  fer- 
ment. 

With  this  arrangement  the  infernal  Power  appeared  to  be 
content,  and  Anthony  was  temporarily  relieved  of  his  trouble. 
In  other  words,  the  intermittent  e  er  of  a  sort  of  harmless 
rascality  was  afflicting  this  old  cr -ature.  He  never  enter- 
tained the  notion  of  running  clear  away  with  the  money 
entrusted  to  him. 

Whither  could  an  aged  man  fly?     He  thought  of  furegn 


208  EHODA  FLKMINO. 

places  as  of  spots  that  p^ave  him  a  shivering  sense  of  its 
beinij  necessary  for  him  to  be  born  aq-ain  in  nakedness  and 
helplessness,  if  ever  he  was  to  see  them  and  set  foot  on 
them. 

London  was  his  home,  and  clothed  him  about  warmly  and 
honouruldy,  and  so  he  said  to  the  demon  in  their  next 
coll<)(|ny. 

Anthony  had  become  guilty  of  the  imprudence  of  admitting 
him  to  conferences  and  arguing  with  him  upon  equal  terms. 
They  tell  us,  that  this  is  the  imprudence  of  women  under 
temptation ;  and  perhaps  Anthony  was  pushed  to  the  verge 
of  the  abyss  from  causes  somewhat  similar  to  those  which 
imperil  them,  and  employed  the  same  kind  of  efforts  in  his 
resistance  : — Sauf  notre  respect  pour  le  heaii  sexe,  bien  entendu. 

In  consequence  of  this  compromise,  the  demon  by  degrees 
took  scat  at  his  breakfast-table,  when  Mrs.  Wicklow,  his 
landlady,  could  hear  Anthony  talking  in  the  tone  of  voice 
of  one  who  was  pushed  to  his  sturdiest  arguments.  She 
conceived  that  the  old  man's  head  was  softening. 

He  was  making  one  of  his  hurried  rushes  with  the  por- 
terage of  money  on  an  afternoon  in  Spring,  when  a  young 
female  plucked  at  his  coat,  and  his  wrath  at  offenders  against 
the  law  kindled  in  a  minute  into  fury. 

"  Hands  off,  minx !"  he  cried.  "  You  shall  be  given  in 
charge.     Where's  a  policeman  ?" 

"  Uncle  !"  she  said. 

"You  precious  swindler  in  petticoats  !"  Anthony  fumed. 

But  he  had  a  queer  recollection  of  her  face,  and  when  she 
repeated  piteously :  "  Uncle  1"  he  peered  at  her  featui-es, 
saying — 

"No  !"  in  wonderment,  several  times. 

Her  hair  was  cut  like  a  boy's.  She  was  in  common  gar- 
meiits,  with  a  close-shaped  skull-cap  and  a  black  straw 
bonnet  on  her  head;  not  gloved,  of  ill  complexion,  and  with 
deep  dark  lines  slanting  down  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 
Yet  the  insj)ection  convinced  him  that  he  beheld  Dahlia,  his 
niece.  He  was  amazed;  but  speedily  remembering  the 
priceless  trust  in  his  arms,  and  the  wickedness  of  the  streets, 
he  bade  her  follow  him.  She  did  so  with  some  didlculty,  for 
he  lan,  and  dodged,  and  treated  the  woi-ld  as  his  enemy, 
suddenly  vanished,  and  appeared  again  breathing  freely. 

"  Why,  my  girl  ?"  he  said  :  "  Why,  Dahl Mrs.  What's. 


Anthony's  fearful  temptation.  209 

yonr-name  ?  "Why,  who'd  have  known  you?  Is  that" — he 
got  his  eyes  close  to  her  hair ;  "  is  that  the  ladies'  fashion 
now  ?  'Cause,  if  it  is,  our  young  street  scamps  has  only  got 
to  buy  bonnets,  and — I  say,  you  don't  look  the  Pomp.     Xot 

as  you  used  to,  Miss  Ma'am,   I  mean — no,   that  you 

don't.     Well,  what's  the  news?     How's  your  husband  ?" 

"  Uncle,"  said  Dahlia;  "will  you,  please,  let  me  speak  to 
you  somewhere  ?" 

"  Ain't  we  standing  together  ?" 

"  Oh  !  pray,  out  of  the  crowd  !" 

"  Come  home  with  me,  if  my  lodgings  ain't  too  poor  for 
you,"  said  Anthony. 

"  Uncle,  I  can't.  I  have  been  unwell.  I  canLot  walk  far. 
Will  you  take  me  to  some  quiet  place  ?" 

"  Will  you  treat  me  to  a  cab  ?"  Anthony  sneered  vehe- 
mently. 

"  I  have  l«ft  off  riding,  uncle." 

"  What !  Hulloa !"  Anthony  sang  out.  *'  Cash  ic  down  in 
the  mouth  at  home,  is  it  ?     Tell  me  that,  now  ?" 

Dahlia  di'opped  her  eyelids,  and  then  entreated  him  once 
m.ore  to  conduct  her  to  a  quiet  place  where  they  might  sit 
together,  away  from  noise.  She  was  very  earnest  and  very 
sad,  not  seeming  to  have  much  streng-th. 

"  Do  you  mind  taking  my  arm  ?"  said  Anthony. 

She  leaned  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  he  dived  across  th& 
road  with  her,  among  omnibuses  and  cabs,  shouting  to  then? 
through  the  roar — 

"  We're  the  Independence  on  two  legs,  warranted  sound, 
and  no  competition  ;"  and  saying  to  Dahlia :  "  Lor'  bless 
you!  there's  no  retort  in  'em,  or  I'd  say  something  worth 
hearing.  It's  like  poking  lions  in  cages  with  raw  meat, 
afore  you  get  a  chaffing-match  out  o'  them.  Some  of  'em 
know  me.  They'd  be  good  at  it,  those  fellows.  I've  heard 
of  good  things  said  by  'em.  But  there  they  sit,  and  they've 
got  no  crrculation — ain't  ready,  except  at  old  women,  or 
when  they  catch  you  in  a  mess,  and  getting  the  worst  of  it. 
Let  me  tell  you,  you'll  never  get  manly  chaff  out  of  big 
bundles  o'  fellows  with  ne'er  an  atom  o'  circulation.  The 
river's  the  place  for  that.  I've  heard  uncommon  good  things 
on  the  river — not  of  'em,  but  heard  'em.  T 'other's  most  part 
invention.  And,  they  tell  me,  horseback's  a  prime  thing  for 
chaff.     Cii'culation,  again.     Sharp  and  lively,  I  mean  j  not 

P 


210  EnODA  PLEMINO. 

bawl,  RTifl  answer  over  yonr  back — most  part  impndoTice, 
and  nothing  else — and  then  out  of  hearing.  Tliat  sort  o' 
ch:ifl''s  eowarilly.  Boys  are  still"  yonng  parties — circulation 
— and  I  don't  tackle  them  pretty  often,  'xcept  when  I'm 
going  like  a  ball  among  nine-pins.  It's  all  a  rautter  o'  circu- 
lation. I  say,  my  dear,"  Anthony  addressed  her  seriously, 
"  you  should  never  lay  hold  o'  my  arm  when  you  see  me 
going  my  pace  of  an  afternoon.  I  took  you  for  a  thief,  and 
worse — I  did.  That  I  did.  Had  you  been  waiting  to  see 
me  ?" 

"  A  little,"  Dahlia  replied,  breathless. 

"  You  have  been  ill  ?" 

"A  little,"  she  said. 

"  You've  written  to  the  farm  ?     O'  course  you  have  1" 

"  Oh  !  uncle,  wait,"  moaned  Dahlia. 

"  But,  ha'  you  been  sick,  and  not  written  home  ?" 

"  AVait ;  please,  wait,"  slie  entreated  him. 

"  I'll  wait,"  said  Anthony;  "  but  that's  no  improvement  to 
queerness ;  and  '  queer's  '  your  motto.  Now  we  cross  London 
Bridge.  There's  the  Tower  that  lived  in  times  when  no  man 
was  safe  of  keeping  his  own  money,  'cause  of  grasping  kings 
— all  claws  and  crown.  I'm  Republican  as  far  as  '  none  o' 
them ' — goes.  There's  the  ships.  The  sun  rises  beliind  'em, 
and  sets  afore  'em,  and  you  may  fancy,  if  j^ou  like,  there's 

always  gold  in  their  rigging.     Gals  o'  your  sort  think 1 

say,  come  !  tell  me,  if  3'ou  are  a  lady  ?" 

"No,  uncle,  no!"  Dahlia  cried,  and  then  drawing  in  her 
breath,  added  :  "not  to  you." 

"  Last  time  I  crossed  this  bridge  with  a  young  woman 
hanging  on  my  arm,  it  was  your  sister;  they  say  she  called 
on  you,  and  you  wouldn't  see  her;  and  a  gal  so  good  and  a 
gal  so  true  ain't  to  be  got  for  a  sister  every  day  in  the  year  ! 
What  are  you  pulling  me  for  ?" 

Daldia  said  nothing,  but  clung  to  him  with  a  drooping 
head,  and  so  tLey  hurried  along,  until  Anthony  stopped  in 
front  of  a  shop  displaying  cu])s  and  muffins  at  the  window, 
and  leprous-looking  strips  of  bacon,  and  sausages  tliat  had 
angled  for  appetites  till  they  had  become  pallid  sodden 
things,  like  washed-out  bait. 

Into  this  shop  he  led  her,  and  they  took  possession  of  a 
compartment,  and  ordered  tea  and  mullins. 

The  shop  was  empty. 


ANTHONY'S  FEARFUL  TEMPTATION.  211 

"  It's  one  of  the  expenses  of  relationship,"  Anthony 
sighed,  after  probing  Dahlia  unsatisfactorily  to  see  whether 
she  intended  to  pay  for  both,  or  at  least  for  herself  ;  and 
finding  that  she  had  no  pride  at  all.  "  My  sister  marries 
your  father,  and,  in  consequence — well !  a  muffin  now  and 
then  ain't  so  very  much.  We'll  forget  it,  though  it  is  a 
breach,  mind,  in  counting  up  afterwards,  and  twopences 
every  day's  equal  to  a  good  big  cannon  ball  in  the  castle- 
wall  at  the  end  of  the  year.     Have  you  written  home  ?" 

Dahlia's  face  showed  the  bright  anguish  of  unshed  tears. 

"  Uncle — oh  !  speak  low.  I  have  been  near  death.  I  have 
been  ill  for  so  long  a  time.  I  have  come  to  you  to  hear  about 
them — my  father  and  Rhoda.  Tell  me  what  they  are  doing, 
and  do  they  sleep  and  eat  well,  and  are  not  in  trouble  ?  I 
could  not  write.  I  was  helpless.  I  could  not  hold  a  pen. 
Be  kind,  dear  uncle,  and  do  not  reproach  me.  Please,  tell 
me  that  they  have  not  been  sorrowful." 

A  keenness  shot  from  Anthony's  eyes.  *'  Then,  where's 
your  husband  P"  he  asked. 

She  made  a  sad  attempt  at  smiling.     "  He  is  abroad." 

"  How  about  his  relations  ?  Ain't  there  one  among  'em  to 
write  for  you  when  you're  ill  ?" 

"  He  .  .  .  Yes,  he  has  relatives.  I  could  not  ask  them. 
Oh  !  I  am  not  strong,  uncle;  if  you  will- only  leave  following 
me  so  with  questions  ;  but  tell  me,  tell  me  what  I  want  to 
know." 

"  Well,  then,  you  tell  me  where  your  husband  banks," 
returned  Anthony. 

"  Indeed,  I  cannot  say." 

"  Do  you,"  Anthony  stretched  out  alternative  fingers,  "  do 
you  get  money  from  him  to  make  payments  in  gold,  or,  do 
you  get  it  in  paper  ?" 

She  stared  as  in  terror  of  a  pit-fall.  "  Paper,"  she  said  at 
a  venture. 

"  Well,  then,  name  your  Bank." 

There  was  no  cunning  in  her  eye  as  she  answered :  "  I 
don't  know  any  bank,  except  the  Bank  of  England." 

"  Why  the  deuce  didn't  you  say  so  at  once — eh  ?"  cried 
Anthony.  "  He  gives  you  bank-notes.  Nothing  better  in 
the  world.  And  he  an't  been  givin'  you  many  lately — ia 
that  it  ?     What's  his  profession,  or  business  ?" 

"  He  is  .  .  .  he  is  no  profession." 

p2 


212  KnODA  FLEMING. 

"  Then,  wliat  is  ho  ?     Is  he  a  g'cntleman  ?" 

**  Yes,"  she  breathed  plaintively. 

"Your  husband's  a  gLntlt-inan.  Eh?  —  and  lost  his 
money  r*" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  dill  ho  lose  it  ?" 

The  poor  victim  of  this  pertinacious  interrogatory  now 
beat  about  within  herself  for  succour.  "  I  must  not  say," 
she  replied. 

"  You're  going  to  try  to  keep  a  secret,  are  ye  ?"  said 
Anthony  ;  and  she,  in  her  relief  at  the  pause  to  her  torment, 
said  :  "  I  am,"  with  a  little  infantile,  withering  half-smile. 

"  Well,  you've  been  and  kept  yourself  pretty  secret,"  the 
old  man  pursued.  "  I  suppose  your  husband's  proud  ?  He's 
proud,  ain't  he  ?  He's  of  a  family,  I'll  be  bound.  Is  he  of 
a  family  ?  How  did  he  like  your  dressing  up  like  a  mill'ner 
gal  to  come  down  in  the  City  and  see  me  ?" 

Dahlia's  guile  was  not  ready.  "  He  didn't  mind,"  she 
said. 

"  He  didn't  mind,  didn't  he  ?  He  don't  mind  your  cutting 
of  your  hair  so  ? — didn't  mind  that  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.     "  No." 

Anthony  was  down  upon  her  like  a  hawk. 

"  Why,  he's  abroad!" 

"  Yes  ;  I  mean,  he  did  not  see  me." 

"With  which,  in  a  minute,  she  was  out  of  his  grasp  ;  Tint 
her  heart  beat  thick,  her  lips  were  diy,  and  her  thoughts 
were  in  disorder. 

"  Then,  he  don't  know  you've  boon  and  got  .shaved,  and  a 
poll  like  a  turnip-head  of  a  thief  ?  That's  something  for 
him  to  learn,  is  it  ?" 

The  picture  of  her  beauty  gone,  seared  her  eyes  like  heated 
brass.  She  caught  Anthony's  arm  with  one  lirm  hand  to 
hold  him  silent,  and  with  the  other  hand  covered  her  sight 
and  let  the  fit  of  weeping  pass. 

When  the  tears  had  spent  themselves,  she  relinquished 
her  hold  of  the  astonished  old  man,  who  leaned  over  the 
table  to  her,  and  dominated  by  the  spirit  of  her  touch, 
whispered,  like  one  who  had  accepted  a  bond  of  secrecy : 
"Th'  old  farmer's  well.  So's  Rhoda — my  darkie  lass. 
They've  taken  on  a  bit.  And  then  they  took  to  religion  for 
comfort.     Th'   old   fai-mer   attends    Methody   meetin's,  and 


ANTHONY'S  FEARPUL  TEMPTATION.  213 

quotes  Scriptur'  as  if  lie  was  fixed  like  a  pump  to  the  Book, 
and  couldn't  fetch  a  breath  without  quotin'.  Rhoda's  oftenest 
along  with  your  rector's  wife  down  there,  and  does  works  o' 
charity,  sick-nussin',  readin' — old  farmer  does  the  preachin'. 
Old  mother  Sumfit's  fat  as  ever,  and  says  her  money's  foi 
you.  Old  Gammon  goes  on  eatin'  of  the  dumplins.  Hey ! 
what  a  queer  old  ancient  he  is.  He  seems  to  me  to  belong  to 
a  time  afore  ever  money  was.  That  Mr.  Robert's  oif 
.  .  .  never  been  down  there  since  he  left,  'cause  my 
darkie  lass  thought  herself  too  good  for  him.  So  she  is  ! — 
too  good  for  anybody.  They're  going  to  leave  the  farm ; 
sell,  and  come  to  London." 

"  Oh,  no !"  exclaimed  Dahlia ;  "  not  going  to  leave  the 
dear  old  farm,  and  our  lane,  and  the  old  oaks,  leading*  up  to 
the  heath.  Are  they  ?  Father  will  miss  it.  Rhoda  will 
moui-n  so.  I^o  place  will  ever  be  like  that  to  them.  I  love 
it  better  than  any  place  on  earth." 

"  That's  queer,"  said  Anthony.  "  Why  do  you  refuse  to 
go,  or  won't  let  your  husband  take  you  down  there ;  if  you 
like  the  place  that  raving-like  ?  But  queer's  your  motto. 
The  truth  is  this — you  just  listen.  Hear  me — hush  !  I 
won't  speak  in  a  bawl.  You're  a  reasonable  being-,  and  you 
don't — that's  to  say,  you  do  understand,  the  old  farmer  feels 
it  uncomfortable " 

"  But  I  never  helped  him  when  I  was  there,"  said  Dahlia, 
suddenly  shrinking  in  a  perceptible  tremble  of  acute  divi- 
nation. "  I  was  no  use.  I  never  helped  him — not  at  all. 
I  was  no — no  use  !" 

Anthony  blinked  his  eyes,  not  knowing  how  it  was  that 
he  had  thus  been  thrown  out  of  his  dix^ect  road.  He  began 
again,  in  his  circumlocutory  delicacy  :  "  Never  mind  ;  help 
or  no  help,  what  th'  old  farmer  feels  is — and  quite  nat'ral. 
There's  sensations  as  a  father,  and  sensations  as  a  man ; 
and  what  th'  old  farmer  feels  is " 

"  But  Rhoda  has  always  been  more  to  father  than  I  have," 
Dahlia  cried,  now  stretching  forward  with  desperate  courage 
to  confront  her  uncle,  distract  his  speech,  and  avert  the 
saying  of  the  horrible  thing  she  dreaded.  "  Rhoda  was 
everything  to  him.  Mother  perhaps  took  to  me — my 
mother!" 

The  line  of  her  long  underlip  drawn  sharp  to  check  her 
tears,  stopped  her  speaking. 


214  EnODA  FLEMING. 

"  All  very  well  about  Rhoda,"  said  Anthony.  "  Slie's 
everything  to  me,  too." 

"  Every — everybody  loves  her!"  Dahlia  took  him  up. 

"  Let  'em,  so  long  as  they  don't  do  no  harm  to  her,"  was 
Anthony's  remark.  There  was  an  idea  in  this  that  he  liad 
said,  and  the  light  of  it  led  ofE  Iiis  fancy.  It  was  some  time 
before  he  returned  to  the  attack. 

"  Neighbours  gossip  a  good  deal.  O'  course  you  know 
that." 

"  I  never  listen  to  them,"  said  Dahlia,  who  now  felt  bare 
at  any  instant  for  the  stab  she  saw  comintr. 

"  No,  not  in  London ;  but  country's  dilf erent,  and  a  man 
hearing  of  his  child — '  it's  very  odd  !'  and  '  kecpin'  away 
like  that!'  and  '  Avhat's  become  of  her?'  and  that  sort  of 
thing,  he  gets  upset." 

Dalilia  swallowed  in  her  throat,  as  in  perfect  quietude  of 
spirit,  and  pretended  to  see  no  meaning  for  herself  in 
Anthony's  words. 

But  she  said,  inadvertently,  "  Dear  father !"  and  it  gave 
Anthony  his  opening. 

"  There  it  is.  No  doubt  you're  fond  of  him.  You're  fond 
o'  th'  old  farmer,  who's  your  father.  Then,  why  not  make 
a  entrv  into  the  villacre,  and  show  'era  ?  I  loves  mv  father, 
says  you.  I  can  or  I  can't  bring  my  husband,  you  seems  to 
say  ;  but  I'm  come  to  see  my  old  father.  Will  you  go  down 
to-morrow  wi'  me  ?" 

"  Oh  !"  Dahlia  recoiled  and  abandoned  all  defence  in  a 
moan  :   "  I  can't — I  cant !" 

"There,"  said  Anthony,  "you  can't.  You  confess  you 
can't;  and  there's  reason  for  what's  in  your  father's  mind. 
And  he  hearin'  neighbours'  gossiji,  and  it  comes  to  him  by 
a  sort  of  extractin' — '  NVhere's  her  husband  ?'  bein'  the 
question;  and  'She  ain't  got  one,'  the  answer — it's  nat'ral 
for  him  to  leave  the  place.  I  never  can  tell  him  liow  you 
went  off,  or  who's  the  man,  lucky  or  not.  You  went  off 
sudden,  on  a  morning,  after  kissin'  me  at  breakfast  ;  and  no 
more  Duhly  visible.  And  he  suspects — he  more'n  suspects. 
Farm's  up  for  sale.  Th'  old  farmer  thinks  it's  unbrotherly 
of  me  not  to  go  and  buy,  and  I  can't  make  him  see  I  don't 
understand  land  :  it's  about  like  changing  sovereigns  for 
lumps  o'  clfiy,  in  my  notions;  and  that  ain't  my  taste.  Long 
and  the  short  is — people   down   theie  at  Wrexby  and  all 


Anthony's  peaeful  temptation.  215 

ronnd  say  tou  ain't  mairied.  He  ain't  pot  a  ansTver  for 
'em  ;  it"s  cruel  to  hear,  and  crneller  to  think :  he's  got  no 
answer,  poor  old  farmer !  and  he's  obliged  to  go  inter  exile. 
Farm's  up  for  sale." 

Anthony  thumped  with  his  foot  conclusively. 

"Say  I'm  not  married!"  said  Dahlia,  and  a  bad  colour 
flushed  her  countenance.  "  They  say — I'm  not  married. 
I  am — I  am.  It's  false.  It's  cruel  of  father  to  listen  to 
them — wicked  people  !  base — base  people  !  I  am  married, 
uncle.  Tell  father  so,  and  don't  let  him  sell  the  farm.  Tell 
him,  I  said  I  was  married.  I  am.  I'm  respected.  I  have 
only  a  little  trouble,  and  I'm  sure  others  have  too.  We  all 
have.  Tell  father  not  to  leave.  It  breaks  my  heart.  Oh  ! 
uncle,  tell  him  that  from  me." 

Dahlia  gathered  her  shawl  close,  and  set  an  irresolute 
hand  upon  her  bonnet  strings,  that  moved  as  if  it  had  for- 
gotten its  purpose.  She  could  say  no  more.  She  could 
only  watch  her  uncle's  face,  to  mark  the  effect  of  what  she 
had  said. 

Anthony  nodded  at  vacancy.  His  eyebrows  were  up,  and 
did  not  descend  from  their  elevation.  "  You  see,  your  father 
wants  assurances  ;  he  wants  facts.  They're  easy  to  give,  if 
give  'em  you  can.  Ah,  there's  a  weddin'  ring  on  your  finger, 
sure  enough.  Plain  gold — and,  Lord  !  how  bony  your  fingers 
ha'  got,  Dahly.  If  you  are  a  sinner,  you're  a  bony  one  now, 
and  that  don't  seem  so  bad  to  me.  I  don't  accuse  you,  my 
dear.  Perhaps  I'd  like  to  see  your  husband's  banker's  book. 
But  what  your  father  hears,  is — You've  gone  wrong." 

Dahlia  smiled  in  a  consummate  simulation  of  scorn. 

"  And  your  father  thinks  that's  true." 

She  smiled  with  an  equal  simulation  of  saddest  pity. 

"  And  he  says  this  :  '  Proof,'  he  says,  '  proof's  what  I  want, 
that  she's  an  honest  woman.'  He  asks  for  you  to  clear  your- 
self. He  says,  '  It's  hard  for  an  old  man ' — these  are  his 
words — 'it's  hard  for  an  old  man  to  hear  his  daughter 
called  ....'" 

Anthony  smacked  his  hand  tight  on  his  open  mouth. 

He  was  guiltless  of  any  intended  cruelty,  and  Dahlia's 
first  impulse  when  she  had  got  her  breath,  was  to  soothe 
him.  She  took  his  hand.  "  Dear  father !  poor  father  1 
Dear,  dear  father  !"  she  kept  saying. 

"  Rhoda  don't  think  it,"  Anthony  assured  her. 


2  T  G  KITODA  FhEMING. 

"  No  ?"  and  Dahlia's  bosom  exulted  up  to  hipfher  pain. 

*'  Klioda  declares  you  are  married.  To  bear  that  gal  fici'ht 
for  you — ;  there's  ne'er  a  one  in  Wrexby  dares  so  much  as 
hint  a  word  within  a  mile  of  her." 

"  My  Klioda !  my  sister !"  Dahlia  gasped,  and  the  tears 
came  pouring  down  her  face. 

In  vain  Anthony  lifted  her  tea-cup  and  the  mufTin-plate  to 
her  for  consolation.  His  bushings  and  soothings  were  louder 
than  her  weeping.  Incapable  of  resisting  such  a  protest  of 
innocence,  he  said,  "  And  I  don't  think  it,  neither." 

She  pressed  his  fingers,  and  begged  him  to  pay  the  people 
of  the  shop  :  at  which  sign  of  her  being  probably  moneyless, 
Anthony  could  not  help  mumbling,  "  Though  I  can't  make 
out  about  your  husband,  and  why  he  lets  ye  be  cropped — ■ 
that  he  can't  help,  may  be — but  lets  ye  go  about  dressed  like 
a  mill'ner  gal,  and  not  afford  cabs.     Is  he  very  poor  ?" 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"  Foot  .?" 

*'  He  is  very  poor." 

*'  Is  he,  or  ain't  he,  a  gentleman  ?" 

Dahlia  seemed  torn  by  a  new  anguish. 

"  I  see,"  said  Anthony.  "  He  goes  and  persuades  yon  he 
is,  and  you've  been  and  found  out  he's  nothin'  o'  the  sort — 
eh  ?  That  *d  be  a  way  of  accounting  for  your  queei-ness, 
more  or  less.  Was  it  that  fellow  that  Wicklow  gal  saw  ye 
with?" 

Dahlia  signified  vehemently,  "  No." 

"  Then,  I've  guessed  riglit ;  he  turns  out  not  to  be  a  gentle- 
man— eh,  Dahly  F  Go  on  noddin',  if  ye  like.  Never  mind 
the  shop  people ;  we're  well-conducted,  and  that's  all  they 
care  for.  I  say,  Dahly,  he  ain't  a  gentleman  ?  You  speak 
out  or  nod  your  head.  You  thought  you'd  caught  a  gentle- 
man and  'taint  the  case.  Gentlemen  ain't  caught  so  easy. 
They  all  of  'em  goes  to  scho(d,  and  that  makes  'em  knowin'. 
Come  ;  he  ain't  a  gentleman  ?" 

Dahlia's  voice  issued,  from  a  terrible  inward  conflict,  like 
a  voice  of  the  tombs.     "  No,"  she  said. 

"  Then,  will  you  show  him  to  me  ?  Let  me  have  a  look 
at  him." 

Pushed  from  misery  to  misery,  she  struggled  within  her- 
self again,  and  again  in  the  same  hollow  mauuur  said,  "Yes." 

"You  will?" 


-» 


AKTHONY  S  FEARFDL  TEMPTATJON. 


217 


"Yes." 

"  Seein's  believin'.  If  you'll  show  him  to  me,  or  me  *<• 
im  .  .  . 

"  Oh  !  don't  talk  of  it."  Dahlia  struck  her  fingers  in  a 
tight  lock. 

"1  only  want  to  set  eye  on  him,  my  gal.  Whereabouts 
does  he  live  ?" 

"  Down — down  a  great — very  great  way  in  the  West." 

-Anthony  stared. 

She  replied  to  the  look  :  "  In  the  West  of  London— a  long 
way  down." 

'■'  That's  where  he  is  ?" 

"Yes." 

*'  I  thought  —  hum !"  went  the  old  man  suspiciously, 
**  When  am  I  to  see  him  ?     Some  day  ?" 

*'  Yes  ;  some  day." 

«  Didn't  I  say,  Sunday  ?" 

**  Next  Sxmday  ?" — Dahlia  gave  a  muffled  cry. 

*'  Yes,  next  Sunday.  Day  after  to-morrow.  And  I'll 
"Write  off  to-morrow,  and  ease  th'  old  farmer's  heart,  and 
Rhoda  '11  be  proud  for  you.  She  don't  care  about  gentleman 
— or  no  gentleman.  More  do  th'  old  farmer.  It's  let  us  live 
and  die  respectable,  and  not  disgrace  father  nor  mother. 
Old-fashioned's  best-fashioned  about  them  things,  1  think. 
Come,  you  bring  him — your  husband — to  me  on  Sunday,  if 
you  object  to  my  callin*  on  you.     Make  up  your  mind  to." 

'-'Not  next  Sunday — the  Sunday  after,"  Dahlia  pleaded. 
"  He  is  not  hei^e  no^v." 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  Anthony  asked. 

"  He's  in  the  country." 

Anthony  pounced  on  her,  as  he  had  done  previously. 

"You  said  to  me  he  was  abroad." 

"In  the  country — abroad.  Not — not  in  tbe  great  cities. 
I  could  not  make  known  your  wishes  to  him." 

She  gave  this  cool  explanation  with  her  eyelids  fluttering 
timorously,  and  rose  as  she  uttered  it,  but  with  faint  and  ill- 
supporting  limbs,  for  during  the  past  hour  she  had  gone 
through  the  sharpest  trial  of  her  life,  and  had  decided  for 
the  course  of  her  life.  Anthony  was  witless  thereof ,  and.  was 
mystified  by  his  incapability  of  perceiving  where  and  how 
he  had  been  deluded  ;  but  he  had  eaten  all  the  muiSn  on  the 
plate,  and  her  rising  proclaimed  that  she  had  no  intention  of 


218  EHODA  FLEMING. 

making  him  call  for  another;  "wliich  was  satisfactory.     He 
drank  oiT  lier  cup  of  tea  at  a  gulp. 

Tlio  waitress  named  the  sum  he  was  to  pay,  and  receiving 
a  meditative  hx)k  in  return  for  her  air  of  expectancy  aftcrr 
the  amount  had  been  hiid  on  tlie  table,  at  once  accelerated 
their  passage  from  the  shop  by  opening  the  door. 

"If  ever  I  did  give  pennies,  I'd  give  'em  to  you,"  said 
Antliony,  when  he  was  out  of  her  heai-ing.  "  Women  beat 
men  in  guessing  at  a  man  by  his  face.  Says  she — you'i  e 
liimourable — you're  legal — but  prodigal  ain't  your  portion. 
That's  wliat  she  says,  without  the  words,  unless  she's  a 
rcadex\  Now,  then,  Dalily,  my  lass,  you  take  my  arm. 
Buckle  to.  We'll  to  the  West.  Don't  th'  okl  farmer  j)io- 
nounce  like  '  toe  '  the  West  ?  We'll  '  toe  '  the  West.  1  can 
alford  to  laugh  at  them  big  houses  up  there. 

"  ^Vhere's  the  foundation,  if  one  of  them's  sound  ?  Why, 
in  the  City. 

"  I'll  take  you  by  our  governor's  house.  You  know — you 
know — don't  ye,  Dahly,  know  we  been  suspecting  his  nephew  ? 
'cause  we  s<aw  him  with  you  at  the  theatre, 

"  I  didn't  suspect.  I  knew  he  found  you  there  by  chance, 
somehow.  And  I  noticed  your  dress  there.  No  wonder  your 
husband's  poor.  He  wanted  to  make  you  cut  a  figure  as  one 
of  the  handsomes,  and  that's  as  ruinous  as  cabs — ha!  ha!" 

Anthony  laughed,  but  did  not  reveal  what  had  struck  him. 

"  Sir  William  Blancove's  house  is  a  first-rater.  I've  been 
in  it.  He  lives  in  the  library.  All  the  other  rooms — enter 
'em,  and  if  'taint  like  a  sort  of  a  social  sepulchre  !  Dashed 
if  he  can  get  his  son  to  live  with  him;  though  they're  friends, 
and  his  son  '11  get  all  the  money,  and  go  into  Parliament,  and 
cut  a  shine,  never  fear. 

"  IJy  the  way,  I've  seen  Robert,  too.  Ho  called  on  me  at 
the  Bank.     Asked  after  you. 

"  *  Seen  her  ?'  says  he. 

"  '  No,'  I  says. 

"*  Ever  see  Mr.  Edward  Blancove  here?'  he  says. 

"  I  told  him,  I'd  heard  say,  j\[r.  Edwai-d  was  Continenfalling. 
And  then  Robert  goes  off.  His  opinion  is  you  ain't  in 
England;  'cause  a  policeman  ho  spoke  to  can't  find  you 
nowhere. 

"  '  Come,'  says  I,  '  let's  keep  our  dete'^tives  to  catch  thieves, 
and  not  go  distracting  of  'em  about  a  pai-cel  o'  women. 


Anthony's  peaepul  temptation.  219 

"  He's  awfully  down  about  Rhoda.  She  might  do  worse 
than  take  him.  I  don't  think  he's  got  a  ounce  of  a  chance 
now  Religion's  set  in,  though  he's  the  mildest  big  'un  I  ever 
come  across.  I  forgot  to  haul  him  over  about  what  he'd  got 
to  say  about  Mr.  Edward.  I  did  remark,  I  thought — ain't  I 
right  ? — Mr.  Algernon's  not  the  man  ? — eh  ?  How  come  you 
in  the  theatre  with  him  ?" 

Dahlia  spoke  huskily.  "  He  saw  me.  He  had  seen  me  at 
home.     It  was  an  accident." 

"  Exactly  how  I  put  it  to  Robert.  And  he  agreed  with 
me.  There's  sense  in  that  young  man.  Your  husband 
wouldn't  let  you  come  to  us  there — eh  ?  because  he  ...  . 
"why  was  that  ?" 

Dahlia  had  it  on  her  lips  to  say  it — "  Because  he  was 
poorer  than  I  thought ;"  but  in  the  intensity  of  her  torment, 
the  wretchedness  of  this  lie,  revolted  her.  "  Oh  !  for  God's 
sake,  uncle,  give  me  peace  about  that." 

The  old  man  murmured :  "  Ay,  ay ;"  and  thought  it 
natural  that  she  should  shun  an  allusion  to  the  circum- 
stance. 

They  crossed  one  of  the  bridges,  and  Dahlia  stopped  and 
said  :  "  Kiss  me,  uncle." 

"  I  ain't  ashamed."  said  Anthony. 

This  being  over,  she  insisted  on  his  not  accompanying  her 
farther. 

Anthony  made  her  pledge  her  word  of  honour  as  a  married 
woman,  to  bring  her  husband  to  the  identical  spot  where  they 
stood  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  Sunday  week.  She 
promised  it. 

"  I'll  write  home  to  th'  old  farmer — a  penny,"  said  Anthony, 
showing  that  he  had  considered  the  outlay  and  was  prepared 
for  it. 

"  And  uncle,"  she  stipulated  in  turn,  "  they  are  not  to  see 
me  yet.  Very  soon ;  but  not  yet.  Be  true  to  me,  and  come 
alone,  or  it  will  be  your  fault — I  shall  not  appear.  Now, 
mind.  And  beg  them  not  to  leave  the  farm.  It  will  kill 
father.  Can  you  not,"  she  said,  in  the  faded  sweetness  of 
her  speech,  "  could  you  not  buy  it,  and  let  father  be  your 
tenant,  uncle  ?     He  would  pay  you  regularly." 

Anthony  turned  a  rough  shoulder  on  her. 

"  Good-by,  Dahly.  You  be  a  good  girl,  and  all  '11  go  right. 
Old  farmer  talks  about  praying.     If  he  didn't  make  it  look 


220  RnODA  FLEMING. 

I 

SO  dark  to  a  cliap,  I'd  be  ready  to  fancy  pn-mcthing  in  tliat. 
You  try  it.  You  try,  Ualily.  Say  a  bit  of  a  prayer  to- 
niglit." 

'*  I  pray  every  nicrbt,"  Dahlia  answered. 

Her  look  of  meek  des])air  was  liauntingly  sad  with  Anthony 
on  his  way  home, 

lie  ti-acked  her  sorrowfulness  to  the  want  of  money;  and 
another  of  his  terrific  vague  btruggles  Avith  the  mouey-demon 
set  ixu 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

IN  THE  PARK. 


Sir  "William  Blancove  did  business  at  his  Bank  till  the 
hour  of  three  in  the  afternoon,  when  his  carriage  conveyed 
him  to  a  mews  near  the  park  of  Fashion,  where  he  moanted 
horse  and  obeyed  the  bidding  of  his  doctor  for  a  space,  by 
cantering  in  a  pleasant,  portly,  cock-horsey  style,  up  and 
down  the  Row. 

It  was  the  day  of  the  great  race  on  Epsom  Downs,  and 
eldei'ly  gentlemen  pricked  by  the  doctors  were  in  the 
ascendant  in  all  London  congregations  on  horseback. 

Like  Achilles  (if  the  bilious  tShade  will  permit  the  impu- 
dent comj)arison),  they  dragged  their  enemy.  Gout,  at  their 
horses'  heels  for  a  tenn,  and  vengeance  being  accomplished 
went  to  their  dinners  and  revived  him. 

Sir  William  was  disturbed  by  his  son's  absence  from 
England.  A  youth  to  whom  a  baronetcy  and  wealth  are  to 
be  becjueathed  is  an  important  organism ;  and  Sir  William, 
though  his  faith  reposed  in  his  son,  was  averse  to  his  inex- 
plicably prolonged  residence  in  the  French  metropolis,  which, 
though  a  school  for  many  things,  is  not  a  school  for  the 
study  of  our  ParlianieTitaiy  system,  and  still  less  for  that 
connubial  cai'cer  Sir  William  wished  him  to  commence. 

Edward's  delightful  cynical  wit — the  worldly  man's  pro- 
fundity— and  his  apt  quotations  of  the  wit  of  others,  would 
have  continued  to  exei-cise  their  charm,  if  Sir  William  had 
not  wanted  to  have  him  on  the  spot  that  he  might  answer 


IN  THE  PARK.  221 

certain  questions  pertinaciously  put  by  Mama  Gosling  on 
belialf  of  her  daughter. 

"  There  is  no  engagement,  *  Edward  wrote ;  "  let  the 
maiden  wait  and  discern  her  choice  :  let  her  ripen  ;"  and  he 
quoted  Horace  tip  to  a  point. 

ISTor  could  his  father  help  smiling  and  completing  the 
lines.  He  laughed,  too,  as  he  read  the  jog  of  a  verse : 
"  Were  I  to  marry  the  Gosling,  pray,  which  would  be  the 
goose  ?" 

He  laughed,  but  with  a  shade  of  disappointment  in  the 
fancy  that  he  perceived  a  wearing  away  of  the  robust  mental 
energy  which  had  characterized  his  son  :  and  Sir  William 
knew  the  danger  of  wit,  and  how  the  sharp  blade  cuts  the 
shoots  of  the  sapling.  He  had  thought  that  Edward  was 
veritable  tough  oak,  and  had  hitherto  encouraged  his  light 
play  with  the  weapon. 

It  became  a  question  with  him  now,  whether  Wit  and 
Ambition  may  dwell  together  harmoniously  in  a  young 
man :  whether  they  will  not  give  such  manifestation  of  their 
social  habits  as  two  robins  shut  in  a  cage  will  do :  of  which 
pretty  birds  one  will  presently  be  discovered  with  a  slightly 
ruffled  bosom  amid  the  feathers  of  his  defunct  associate. 

Thus  painfully  revolving  matters  of  fact  and  feeling.  Sir 
William  cantered,  and,  like  a  cropped  billow  blown  against 
by  the  wind,  drew  up  in  front  of  Mrs.  Lovell,  and  entered 
into  conversation  with  that  lady,  for  the  fine  needles  of 
whose  brain  he  had  the  perfect  deference  of  an  experienced 
senior.  She,  however,  did  not  give  him  comfort.  She 
informed  him  that  something  was  wrong  with  Edward;  she 
could  not  tell  what.  She  spoke  of  him  languidly,  as  if  his 
letters  contained  wearisome  trifling. 

"  He  strains  to  be  Frenchy,"  she  said.  "  It  may  be  a  good 
compliment  for  them  to  receive :  it's  a  bad  one  for  him 
to  pay." 

"Alcibiades  is  not  the  best  of  models,"  murmured  Sir 
William.     "  He  doesn't  mention  Miss  Gosling." 

"  Oh  dear,  yes.     I  have  a  French  acrostic,  on  her  name." 

**  An  acrostic!" 

A  more  contemptible  form  of  mental  exercise  was  not  to 
be  found,  according  to  Sir  William's  judgement. 

"  An  acrostic  !"  he  made  it  guttural.     "  Well !" 

*•  He  writes  word  that  he  hears  Moliere  every  other  night. 


222  RnODA  PLEMINO. 

That  can't  hai-ra  him.  His  readinpf  is  principally  ^Fcmoirg, 
which  I  tliink  I  have  hoard  you  call  '  The  backstairs  of  his- 
tory.' We  arc  dull  hero,  and  I  should  not  imacrino  it  to  bo 
a  healthy  place  to  dwell  in,  if  the  absence  of  friends  and  the 
presence  of  sunshine  conspire  to  dullness.  Algy,  of  course, 
is  deep  in  accounts  to-day  ?" 

Sir  William  remarked  that  he  had  not  seen  the  young 
man  at  the  otHce,  and  had  not  looked  for  hira ;  but  the  men- 
tion of  Algernon  brought  something  to  his  mind,  and  he 
Baid : 

"  I  hear  he  is  continually  sending  messengers  from  the 
office  to  you  during  the  day.  You  rule  him  with  a  rod  of 
iron.  ]\Iake  him  discontinue  that  practice.  I  hear  that  ho 
despatched  our  old  porter  to  you  yesterday  with  a  letter 
marked  'urgent.'  " 

Mrs.  Lovell  laughed  pleadingly  for  Algernon. 

"  No ;  he  shall  not  do  it  again.  It  occurred  yesterday, 
and  on  no  other  occasion  that  I  am  aware  of.  He  presumes 
that  I  am  as  excited  as  he  is  himself  about  the  race ." 

The  lady  bowed  to  a  passing  cavalier ;  a  smarting  blush 
dyed  her  face. 

"  He  bets,  does  he  !"  said  Sir  William.  "  A  young  man, 
whose  income,  at  the  extreme  limit,  is  two  hundred  pounds 
a  year." 

"  May  not  the  smallncss  of  the  amount  in  some  degree 
account  for  the  betting  Y"  she  asked  whimsically.  "  You 
know,  I  bet  a  little — just  a  little.  If  I  have  but  a  small 
sum,  I  already  regard  it  as  a  stake  ;  I  am  tempted  to  bid  it 

fly-" 

"  In  his  case,  such  conduct  puts  him  on  the  high  road  to 
rascality,"   said    Sii-   William  severely.      "He  is   doing  no 

good." 

"  Then   the    squire   is    answerable    for    such   conduct,   I 

think." 

"  You  presume  to  say  that  he  is  so  because  he  allows  his 

son  very  little  money  to  squander  ?     How  many  young  men 

have  to  contain  their  expenses  Avithin  two  hundred  pounds 

I" 
a-year  ! 

"  Not  sons  of  squires  and  nephews  of  baronets,"  said  Mrs. 
Lovell.  "Adieu!  I  think  I  see  a  carrier-pigeon  flying 
overlieiid,  and,  as  you  may  suppose,  I  am  all  anxiety." 

iSir  William  nodded  to  her.     He  disliked  certain  of  her 


IN  THE  PARK.  223 

ways  ;  but  ttey  -were  transparent  bits  of  audacity  and  rest- 
lessness pertaining  to  a  youthful  widow,  full  of  natural 
dash ;  and  she  was  so  sweetly  mistress  of  herself  in  all  she 
did,  that  he  never  supposed  her  to  be  needing  caution 
against  excesses.  Old  gentlemen  have  their  pets,  and  Mrs. 
Lovell  was  a  pet  of  Sir  William's. 

She  was  on  the  present  occasion  quite  mistress  of  herself, 
though  the  stake  was  large.  She  Avas  mistress  of  herself 
when  Lord  Suckling,  who  had  driven  from  the  Downs  and 
brushed  all  save  a  spot  of  white  dust  out  of  his  baby  mous- 
tache to  make  himself  presentable,  rode  up  to  her  to  say  that 
the  horse  Templemore  was  beaten,  and  that  his  sagacity  in 
always  betting  against  favourites  would,  in  this  last  instance, 
transfer  a  '  pot  of  money '  from  alien  pockets  to  his  own. 

"  Algy  Blancove's  in  for  five  hundred  to  me,"  he  guid ; 
adding  with  energy,  "  I  hope  you  haven't  lost  ?  No,  don't 
go  and  dash  my  jolly  feeling  by  saying  you  have.  It  was  a 
fine  heat ;  neck-and-neck  past  the  Stand.     Have  you  ?" 

"  A  little,"  she  confessed.  "  It's  a  failing  of  mine  to  Like 
favourites.     I'm  sorry  for  Algy." 

"  I'm  afraid  he's  awfully  hit." 

*'  What  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

*'  He  took  it  so  awfully  cool." 

*'  That  may  mean  the  reverse." 

"  It  don't  with  him.  But,  Mrs.  Lovell,  do  tell  me  you 
haven't  lost.  Not  much,  is  it  ?  Because,  I  know  there's  no 
guessing,  when  you  are  concerned." 

The  lady  trifled  with  her  bridle-rein. 

"  I  really  can't  tell  you  yet.  I  may  have  lost.  I  haven't 
won.  I'm  not  cool-blooded  enough  to  bet  against  favourites. 
Addio,  son  of  Fortune  !     I'm  at  the  Opera  to-night." 

As  she  turned  her  horse  from  Lord  Sucklingr.  the  cavalier 
who  had  saluted  her  when  she  was  with  Sir  William  passed 
again.  She  made  a  signal  to  her  groom,  and  sent  the  man 
flying  in  pursuit  of  him,  while  she  turned  and  cantered. 
She  was  soon  overtaken. 

"  Madam,  you  have  done  me  the  honour." 

"  I  wish  to  know  why  it  is  your  pleasure  to  avoid  me, 
Major  Waring  ?" 

"  In  this  place  ?" 

*'  Wherever  we  may  chance  to  meet.'* 

"  I  must  protest." 


224  RTTODA  Fr.KMTNO, 

"  Do  Tiof.     Tlio  fliin*^  IS  evident.'* 

They  I'odo  tofrcfher  silontly. 

Her  face  was  towaid  the  sunset.  Tlie  liijlit  pmofo  her 
yellow  liair,  and  struck  out  her  grave  and  ollcndcd  look,  as 
in  a  picture. 

"  To  be  condemned  without  a  hearirc;' !"  she  said.  "  The 
most  dastardly  criminal  gets  that.  Is  it  imaj^incd  that  I 
have  no  common  feelings  ?  Is  it  manly  to  follow  me  with, 
studied  insult  ?  I  can  bear  the  hati  ed  of  fools.  Contempt 
I  have  not  deserved.  Dead!  I  should  be  dead,  if  my  con- 
Bcience  had  onco  repro.ached  me.  I  ara  a  mark  for  slander, 
and  brave  men  should  beware  of  herding  with  despicable 
slanderers." 

She  spoke,  gazing  fj'ontward  all  the  while.  The  pace  slio 
•maintained  in  no  degree  impeded  the  concentrated  passioa 
of  her  utterance. 

But  it  was  a  more  difficult  task  for  him,  going  at  that 
pace,  to  make  expla,nations,  and  she  was  exquisitely  fair  to 
behold!  The  falling  beams  touched  hex*  with  a  mellow 
sweetness  that  kindled  bleeding  memories. 

"  If  I  defend  myself  ?"  he  said. 

"No.  All  I  ask  is  that  you  should  accuse  me.  Let  mo 
know  what  I  have  done — done,  that  I  have  not  been  bitterly 
punished  for?  What  is  it  P  what  is  it?  Why  do  you. 
inflict  a  torture  on  me  whenever  you  see  me  ?  Not  by  word, 
not  by  look.  You  are  too  subtle  in  your  cruelty  to  give  mo 
anything  I  can  grasp.  You  know  how  you  wound  me.  And 
I  am  alone." 

"  That  is  supposed  to  account  for  my  behaviour  ?" 

She  turned  her  face  to  him.  "Oh,  Major  Waring!  say 
nothing  unworthy  of  yourself.  That  would  be  a  new  paiu 
to  me." 

He  bowed.  In  spite  of  a  prepossessing  anger,  some  littlo 
softness  crept  through  his  heart. 

"  You  may  conceive  that  I  have  dropped  my  pride,"  sho 

said.      "  That    is    the   case,   or   my   pride   is   of     a   better 

t»» 
. 

"  Madam,  I  fully  hope  and  trust,"  said  he. 

"And  believe,"  she  added,  twisting  his  words  to  the  ironio 
tongue.  "You  certainly  must  believe  that  my  pride  has 
sunk  low.     Did  I  ever  speak  to  yon  in  this  manner  betore  i?" 

"  Not  in  this  manner,  I  can  attest." 


m  THE  PAEK.  225 

"  Did  T  spealc  at  all,  -when  I  was  hurt  ?"  Slie  betrayed 
that  lie  had  planted  a  fresh  sting. 

"  If  my  recollection  serves  me,"  said  he,  "  your  self-com- 
mand was  remarkable." 

Mrs.  Lovell  slackened  her  pace. 

"  Your  recollection  serves  you  too  well,  Major  "Waring.  I 
was  a  girl.  You  judged  the  acts  of  a  woman.  I  was  a  girl, 
and  you  chose  to  put  your  own  interpretation  on  whatever  T 
did.  You  scoui'ged  me  before  the  whole  army.  Was  not 
that  enough  ?  I  mean,  enough  for  you  ?  For  me,  perhaps 
not,  for  I  have  suffered  since,  and  may  have  been  set  apart 
to  suif er.  I  saw  you  in  that  little  church  at  Warbeach ;  I 
met  you  in  the  lanes ;  I  met  you  on  the  steamer ;  on  the 
railway  platform  ;  at  the  review.  Everywhere  you  kept  up 
the  look  of  my  judge.  You! — and  I  have  been  'Margaret' 
to  you.  Major  Waring,  how  many  a  woman  in  my  place 
would  attribute  your  relentless  condemnation  of  her  to 
injured  vanity  or  vengeance  ?  In  those  days  I  trifled  with 
everybody.  I  played  with  fire.  I  was  ignorant  of  life.  I 
was  true  to  my  husband ;  and  because  I  was  true,  and  be- 
cause I  was  ignorant,  I  was  plunged  into  tragedies  I  never 
suspected.  This  is  to  be  what  you  call  a  coquette.  Stamp- 
ing a  name  saves  thinking.  Could  I  read  my  husband's 
temper  ?  Would  not  a  coquette  have  played  her  cards 
differently  ?  There  never  was  need  for  me  to  push  my 
husband  to  a  contest.  I  never  had  the  power  to  restrain 
him.  Now  I  am  wiser ;  and  now  is  too  late ;  and  now  you 
sit  in  judgement  on  me.  Why  ?  It  is  not  fair ;  it  is  un- 
kind." 

Tears  were  in  the  voice,  though  not  in  her  eyes. 

Major  Waring  tried  to  study  her  with  the  coolness  of  a 
man  who  has  learnt  to  doubt  the  truth  of  women;  but  he 
had  once  yearned  in  a  young  man's  frenzy  of  love  to  take 
that  delicate  shape  in  his  arms,  and  he  was  not  proof  against 
the  sedate  sweet  face  and  keen  sad  ring  of  the  voice. 

He  spoke  earnestly, 

"  You  honour  me  by  caring  for  my  opinion.  The  past  ia 
buried.  I  have  some  forgiveness  to  ask.  Much,  when  I 
think  of  it — very  much.  I  did  you  a  public  wrong.  From 
a  man  to  a  woman  it  was  unpardonable.  It  is  a  blot  on  my 
career.     I  beg  you  humbly  to  believe  that  I  repent  it." 

The  sun  was  flaming  with  great  wings  red  among  the 

Q 


226  RnODA  FLEMING. 

vapours ;  and  in  the  recollection  of  the  two,  as  they  rode 
onward  facing  it,  arose  that  day  of  the  forlorn  charge  of 
Eiif^lish  horse  in  the  Indian  jun,i,'le,  the  thunder  and  the 
dust,  the  liro  and  tlic  dense  knot  of  the  strugg-le.  And  like 
a  ghost  sweeping  across  her  eyeballs,  Mrs.  Lovell  beheld, 
])art  in  his  English  freshness,  part  ensanguined,  the  image 
of  the  gallant  boy  who  had  ridden  to  perish  at  the  spur  of 
her  mad  whim.     She  forgot  all  present  siuTouiidiugs. 

"  Percy !"  she  said. 

"  IMadam  ?" 

"  Percy !" 

«*  j\Iargaret  ?" 

"  Oh,  what  an  undying  day,  Percy  I* 

And  then  she  was  speechless. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

CONTAINS  A  STUDY  OF  A  FOOL  IN  TROUBLB. 

The  Park  had  been  em]ity,  but  the  opera-house  was  full ; 
and  in  the  brilliance  of  the  lights  and  divine  soaring  of  the 
music,  the  genius  of  Champagne  luncheons  discussed  the 
fate  of  the  horse  Tem]ilcniore ;  some,  as  a  matter  of  remote 
history  ;  some,  as  another  delusion  in  horse-flesh  ;  the  greater 
number,  however,  with  a  determination  to  stand  by  the 
beaten  favourite,  though  he  had  fallen,  and  proclaim  him 
the  best  of  racers  and  an  animal  foully  mishandled  on  the 
course.  There  were  whispers,  and  hints,  and  assertions ; 
now  implicating  the  jockey,  now  the  owner  of  Templomore. 
The  JNlanchester  party,  and  the  Yorkshire  party,  and  their 
diverse  villanous  tricks,  came  under  review.  Sevei-al  ofi'ered 
to  back  Templemore  at  double  the  money  they  had  lost, 
against  the  winner.  A  favourite  on  whom  money  has  been 
staked,  not  only  has  friends,  but  in  adversity  he  is  still 
believed  in;  nor  could  it  well  be  otherwise,  for  the  money, 
no  doubt,  stands  for  faith,  or  it  would  never  have  been  put 
up  to  the  risks  of  a  forfeit. 

Foremost  and  wildest  among  the  excited  young  men  who 
animated   the    stalls,   and    rushed    about    the    lobby,   was 


A  FOOL  IN  TROUBLE.  227 

Algernon.  He  was  the  genius  of  Champagne  Inncheon 
incarnate.  On  him  devolves,  for  a  time,  the  movement  of 
this  storv,  and  wo  shall  do  well  to  contemplate  him,  though 
he  may  seem  possibly  to  be  worthless.  "What  is  worthless, 
if  it  be  well  looked  at  ?  Naj,  the  most  worthless  creatures 
are  most  serviceable  for  examination,  when  the  microscope  is 
applied  to  them,  as  a  simple  study  of  human  mechanism. 
This  youth  is  one  of  great  Nature's  tom-fools  :  an  elegant 
young  gentleman  outwardly,  of  the  very  large  class  who  are 
simply  the  engines  of  their  appetites,  and,  to  the  philosophic 
eye,  still  run  wild  in  woods,  as  did  the  primitive  nobleman 
that  made  a  noise  in  the  earlier  world. 

Algernon  had  this  day  lost  ten  times  more  than  he  could 
hope  to  be  in  a  position  to  pay  within  ten  years,  at  the  least, 
if  his  father  continued  to  argue  the  matter  against  Provi- 
dence, and  live.  He  had  lost,  and  might  speedily  expect  to 
be  posted  in  all  good  betting  circles  as  something  not  plea- 
santly odoriferous  for  circles  where  there  is  no  betting. 
Nev^ertheless,  the  youth  was  surcharged  with  gaiety.  The 
soul  of  mingled  chicken  and  wine  illumined  his  cheeks  and 
eyes.  He  laughed  and  joked  about  the  horse — his  horse,  as 
lie  called  Templemore— and  meeting  Lord  Suckling,  won  five 
sovereigns  of  him  by  betting  that  the  colours  of  one  of  the 
beaten  horses,  Benloo,  were  distinguished  by  a  chocolate  bar. 
The  bet  was  refeired  to  a  dignified  umpire,  who,  a  French- 
man, drew  his  right  hand  down  an  imperial  tuft  of  hair 
dependent  from  his  chin,  and  gave  a  decision  in  Algernon's 
favour.  Lord  Suckling  paid  the  money  on  the  spot,  and 
Algernon  pocketed  it  exulting.  He  had  the  idea  that  it  was 
the  first  start  in  his  making  head  against  the  flood.  The 
next  instant  he  could  have  pitched  himself  upon  the  floor 
and  bellowed.  For,  a  soul  of  chicken  and  wine,  lightly 
elated,  is  easily  dashed ;  and  if  he  had  but  said  to  Lord 
Suckling  that  it  might  as  well  be  deferred,  the  thing  would 
have  become  a  precedent,  and  his  own  debt  might  have  been 
held  back.  He  went  on  saying,  as  he  rushed  forward  alone : 
"  Never  mind.  Suckling.  Oh,  hang  it !  put  it  in  your  pocket ;" 
and  the  imperative  necessity  for  talking,  and  fancying  what 
was  adverse  to  fact,  enabled  him  to  feel  for  a  time  as  if  he 
had  really  acted  according  to  the  prompting  of  his  wisdom. 
It  amazed  him  to  see  people  sitting  and  listening.  The  more 
he  tried  it,  the  more  unendurable  it  became.     Those  sitters 

q2 


223  RHODA  FLEMING. 

and  loungers  appeared  like  absurd  petrifactions  to  him.  If 
he  abstained  from  activity  for  ever  so  short  a  term,  he  was 
tormented  by  a  sense  of  emptiness ;  and,  as  he  said  to  him- 
self, a  man  who  has  eaten  a  chicken,  and  part  of  a  game-]iie, 
and  drunk  thereto  Champagne  all  day,  until  the  popping 
of  the  corks  has  become  as  familiar  as  minute-guns,  he  can 
hardly  be  empty.  It  Avas  peculiar.  He  stood,  just  for  the 
sake  of  investigating  the  circumstance — it  was  so  extia- 
ordinary.  The  music  rose  in  a  trium])hant  swell.  And  now 
he  was  sure  that  he  was  not  to  be  blamed  for  thinking  this 
form  of  entertainment  detestable.  How  could  people  pretend 
to  like  it  ?  "  Upon  my  honour !"  he  said  aloud.  The  hypo- 
critical nonsence  of  pretending  to  like  opera-music  disgusted 
him. 

"  Where  is  it,  Algy  ?"  a  friend  of  his  and  Suckling's  asked, 
with  a  languid  laugh. 

"  Where's  what  ?" 

"  Your  honour." 

"  My  honour  ?  Do  you  doubt  my  honour  ?"  Algernon 
stared  defiantly  <at  the  inoffensive  little  fellow. 

"  Not  in  the  slightest.  Very  soriy  to,  seeing  that  I  have 
you  down  in  my  book." 

"  Latters  ?  Ah,  yes,"  said  Algernon,  musically,  and 
letting  his  under  lip  hang  that  he  might  restrain  the 
impulse  to  bite  it.  "  Fifty,  or  a  hundred,  is  it  ?  I  lost 
my  book  on  the  Downs." 

"  Fifty  ;  but  wait  till  settling-day,  my  good  fellow,  and 
don't  fiddle  at  your  pockets  as  if  I'd  been  touching  you  up 
for  the  money.     Come  and  sup  with  me  to-night." 

Algernon  muttered  a  queer  reply  in  a  good-tempered  tone, 
and  escaped  from  him. 

He  was  sobered  by  that  naming  of  settling-day.  He  could 
now  listen  to  the  music  with  attention,  if  not  with  satisfac- 
tion. As  he  did  so,  the  head  of  drowned  memory  rose  slowly 
up  through  the  wine-bubbles  in  his  brain,  and  he  flung  out 
a  far  thought  for  relief  :  "  How,  if  I  were  to  leave  England 
with  that  dark  girl  Rhoda  at  Wrexby,  marry  her  like  a 
man,  and  live  a  wild  ramping  life  in  the  colonies  ?"  A  cur- 
tain closed  on  the  prospect,  but  if  memory  was  resolved  that 
it  would  not  be  drowned,  he  had  at  any  rate  dosed  it  with 
something  fresh  to  occupy  its  digestion. 

His  opera-glass  had  been  scouring  the  house  for  a  sight 


A  FOOL  IN  TEOUBLE.  229 

of  Mrs.  Lovell,  and  at  last  she  appeared  in  Lord  Elling's 
box. 

"  I  can  g'ive  you  two  minutes,  Alg'y,"  she  said,  as  he 
entered  and  found  her  opportunely  alone.  "  We  have  lost, 
I  hear.  No  interje  tion,  pray.  Let  it  be,  fors  I'honneior, 
with  us.  Come  to  me  to-morrow.  You  have  tossed  trinkets 
into  my  lap.  They  were  marks  of  esteem,  my  cousin.  Take 
them  in  the  same  light  back  from  me.  Turn  them  into 
money,  and  pay  what  is  most  pressing.  Then  go  to  Lord 
Suckling.  He  is  a  good  boy,  and  won't  distress  you;  but 
you  mast  speak  openly  to  him  at  once.  Perhaps  he  will 
help  you.  I  will  do  my  best,  though  whether  I  can,  I  have 
yet  to  learn." 

*'  Dear  Mrs.  Lovell !"  Algernon  burst  out,  and  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  played  nervously. 

He  liked  her  kindness,  and  he  was  wroth  at  the  projected 
return  of  his  gifts.  A  man's  gifts  are  an  exhibition  of  the 
roA^alty  of  his  soul,  and  they  are  the  last  things  which  should 
be  mentioned  to  him  as  matters  to  be  blotted  out  when  he  is 
struggling  against  ruin.  The  lady  had  blunt  insight  just 
then.     She  attributed  his  emotion  to  gratitude. 

"  The  door  may  be  opened  at  any  minute,"  she  warned 
him. 

"  It's  not  about  myself,"  he  said ;  "  it's  you.  I  believe  I 
tempted  you  to  back  the  beastly  horse.  And  he  would  have 
won — a  fair  race,  and  he  would  have  won  easy.  He  was 
winning.  He  passed  the  stand  a  head  ahead.  He  did  win. 
It's  a  scandal  to  the  Turf.  There's  an  end  of  racing  in 
England,  it's  up.  They've  done  for  themselves  to-day. 
There's  a  gang.     It's  in  the  hands  of  confederates." 

"  Think  so,  if  it  consoles  you,"  said  Mrs.  Lovell;  "  don't 
mention  your  thoughts,  that  is  all." 

"  I  do*  think  sp.  Why  should  we  submit  to  a  robbery  ? 
It's  a  sold  affair.  That  Frenchman,  Baron  Vistocq,  says  we 
can't  lift  our  heads  after  it." 

"  He  conducts  himself  with  decency,  I  hope." 

"  Why,  he's  won  !" 

"Imitate  him." 

Mrs.  Lovell  scanned  the  stalls. 

"  Always  imitate  the  behaviour  of  the  winners  when  you 
lose,"  she  resumed.  "  To  speak  of  other  things  :  I  have  had 
no  letter  of  late  from  Edward.     He  should  be  anxious  to 


230  nnoDA  FLEiiiNa. 

return.  I -went  this  morning  to  see  that  unliappy  girl.  She 
consents." 

"Poorcicafnre,"mnrmured  Algernon;  and  added:  "Every, 
body  wuiils  money." 

"  She  decides  wisely ;  for  it  is  the  best  she  can  do.  She 
deserves  ]<ity,  for  she  has  been  basely  nsed." 

"  Poor  old  Ned  didn't  mean,"  Algernon  began  pleading 
on  his  cousin's  behalf,  when  Mrs.  Lovell's  scornful  eye 
checked  the  feeble  attempt. 

"  1  am  a  woman,  and,  in  certain  cases,  I  side  with  my 
sex." 

"  Wasn't  it  for  you  ?" 

"That  lie  betrayed  her?  If  that  wei'e  so,  I  should  be 
sitting  in  ashes." 

Algenion's  look  plainly  declared  that  he  thought  her  a 
mystery. 

The  simplicity  of  his  bewilderment  made  her  smile. 

"  I  think  your  colonies  are  the  right  place  for  you,  Algy, 
if  you  can  get  an  appointment ;  which  must  be  managed  by- 
and-by.     Call  on  me  to-morrow,  as  1  said." 

Algernon  signified  positively  that  he  would  not,  and  dog- 
gedly refused  to  explain  why. 

"  Then  I  will  call  on  you,"  said  Mrs.  Lovell. 

He  was  going  to  say  something  angi-ily,  when  Mrs.  Lovell 
checked  him  :  "  Hush  !  she  is  singing." 

Algernon  listened  to  the  prima  donna  in  loathing ;  he  had 
so  much  to  inquire  about,  and  so  much  to  relate :  such  a 
desire  to  torment  and  be  comforted  ! 

Before  he  could  utter  a  woi-d  further,  the  door  opened,  and 
Major  Waring  appeared,  and  he  beheld  Mrs.  Lovell  blush 
strjingely.  Soon  after.  Lord  Elling  came  in,  and  sjioke  the 
ordinary  sentence  or  two  concerning  the  day's  topic — the 
horse  Tem])lemore.  Algernon  (piitted  the  box.  His  ears 
were  sui-charged  with  sound  entirely  foreign  to  his  emotions, 
and  he  strolled  out  of  the  house  and  off  to  his  dingy  chambei'S, 
now  tenanted  by  himself  alone,  and  there  faced  the  sealed 
letters  addressed  to  Edward,  which  had,  by  order,  not  been 
forwarded.  No  less  than  six  were  in  Dahlia's  handwriting. 
He  had  imagination  suflieient  +o  conceive  the  lamentations 
they  contained,  and  the  i-eproach  they  were  to  liis  own  sub- 
serviency in  not  sending  lliem.  He  looked  at  the  posLmarks. 
The  last  one  was  dated  two  months  back. 


A  FOOL  IN  TROUBLE.  231 

"  How  can  she  have  cared  a  hang  for  Ned,  if  she's  ready 
to  go  and  marrj  a  yokel,  for  the  sake  of  a  home  and  respecta- 
bility ?"  he  thought,  rather  in  scorn;  and,  having  established 
this  contemptuous  opinion  of  one  of  the  sex,  he  felt  justified 

in  despising  all,    "  Just  like  women  !    They no  !    Peggy 

Lovell  isn't.  She's  a  trump  card,  and  she's  a  coquette — ■ 
can't  help  being  one.  It's  in  the  blood.  I  never  saw  her 
look  so  confoundedly  lovely  as  when  that  fellosv  came  into 
ihe  bos.  One  up,  one  down.  Ned's  away,  and  it's  this 
fellow's  turn.  Why  the  deuce  does  she  always  think  I'm  a 
boy  ?  or  else,  she  pretends  to.  But  I  must  give  my  mind  to 
business." 

He  drew  forth  the  betting-book  which  his  lively  fancy  had 
lost  on  the  Downs.  Prompted  by  an  afterthought,  he  went 
to  the  letter-box,  saying — 

"  Who  knows  ?  Wait  till  the  day's  ended  before  you  curse 
your  luck." 

There  was  a  foreign  letter  in  it  from  Edward,  addressed  to 
him,  and  another  addressed  to  "  Mr.  Blancuv,"  that  he  tore 
open  and  read  with  disgusted  laughter.  It  was  signed  "  N". 
Sedgett."  Algernon  read  it  twice  over,  for  the  enjoyment  of 
his  critical  detection  of  the  vile  grammar,  with  many  "  Oh  ! 
by  Joves  !"  and  a  concluding,  "  This  is  a  curiosity  !" 

It  was  a  countryman's  letter,  ill-spelt,  involved,  and  of  a 
character  to  give  Algernon  a  fine  scholarly  sense  of  superiority 
altogether  novel.  Everybody  abused  Algernon  for  his  abuse 
of  common  Queen's  English  in  his  epistles  :  but  here  was  a 
letter  in  comparison  with  which  his  own  were  doctorial,  and 
accordingly  he  fell  upon  it  with  an  acrimonious  rapture  of 
pedantry  known  to  dull  wits  that  have  by  extraordinary 
hazard  pounced  on  a  duller. 

"  You're  '  wilh'ng  to  for jeit  find  forgeive,'  are  you,  you  dog!" 
he  exclaimed,  half  dancing.  "  You'd  forge  anything,  you 
rascal,  if  you  could  disguise  your  h.-And  — that,  I  don't  doubt. 
You  '  expeck  the  thousand  pound  to  be  paid  down  the  day  of 
my  marriage,'  do  you,  you  impudent  rufiian  !  '  acording  to 
agremint.'     What  a  mercenary  vagabond  this  is  !" 

Algernon  reflected  a  minute.  The  money  was  to  pass 
through  his  hands.  He  compressed  a  desire  to  dispute  with 
Sedgett  that  latter  point  about  the  agreement,  and  opened 
Edward's  letter 

It  contained  an.  order  on  a  firm  of  attorneys  to  sell  out  so 


232  EnODA  FLEMINO. 

much  Bank  Stock  and  pay  over  one  thousand  pounds  to  Mr. 
A.  Blancove. 

The  beautiful  concision  of  style  in  this  document  gave 
Algernon  a  feeling  of  profound  deference  towai-d  the  law  and 
its  olliccrs. 

"i^ovv,  that's  the  way  to  write !"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 
Edward's  letter. 


Accompanying  this  pleasant,  pregnant  bit  of  paper,  pos- 
eessed  of  such  admirable  literary  excellence,  were  the 
following  flimsy  lines  fi'om  Edward's  self,  to  Algernon 
incomprehensible. 

As  there  is  a  man  to  be  seen  behind  these  lines  in  the  dull 
nnconscious  process  of  transformation  from  something  veiy 
like  a  villain  to  something  by  a  few  degrees  moi'e  estimable, 
•we  may  as  well  look  at  the  letter  in  full. 

It  begins  with  a  neat  display  of  consideration  for  the 
person  addressed,  common  to  letters  that  ai'e  dictated  by 
overpowering  egoism  : — 

*  ])ear  ^lgt, 

"  I  hope  you  are  "working  and  attending  regularly  to  office 
ousiness.  Look  to  that  and  to  your  health  at  present. 
Depend  upim  it,  there  is  nothing  like  work.  Fix  your  teeth 
in  it.  Work  is  medicine.  A  truism !  Truisms,  whether 
they  lie  in  the  deptlis  of  thought,  or  on  the  sui'face,  are  at 
any  rate  the  pearls  of  experience. 

"  I  am  coming  home.  Let  me  know  the  instant  this  affair 
is  over.  I  can't  tell  why  1  wait  here.  I  fall  into  letliai'gies. 
I  write  to  no  one  but  to  you.  Your  sup])osition  that  I  am 
one  of  the  hangers-on  of  the  coquette  of  her  time,  and  that  it 
is  for  her  I  am  seeking  to  get  free,  is  conceived  with  your 
usual  discrimination.  For  ^fargai-et  Lovell  ?  Do  you 
imagine  that  I  desire  to  be  all  my  life  kicking  the  beam, 
"Weighed  in  capricious  scales,  appraised  to  the  direct  nicety, 


EDWARD'S  LETTEE.  233 

petulantly  taken  up,  probed  for  my  weakest  point,  and  then 
flung  into  the  grate  like  a  child's  toy  ?  That's  the  fate  of 
the  several  asses  who  put  on  the  long-eared  Lo veil- livery. 

"  All  women  are  the  same.  Know  one,  know  all.  Aware 
of   this,  and   too  wise  to   let   us   study  them  successfully, 

Kature pretty  language  this  is  for  you,  Alg}-- !     I  can  do 

nothing  but  write  nonsense.  I  am  sick  of  life.  I  feel  choked. 
After  a  month,  Paris  is  sweet  biscuit. 

"  I  have  sent  you  the  order  for  the  money.  If  it  were 
two,  or  twenty,  thousand  pounds,  it  would  be  the  same 
to  me. 

"  I  swear  to  heaven  that  my  lowest  cynical  ideas  of  women, 
and  the  loathing  with  which  their  simply  animal  vagaries 
inspires  a  thoughtful  man,  are  distanced  and  made  to  seem  a 
benevolent  criticism,  by  the  actualities  of  my  experience.  T 
say  that  you  cannot  put  faith  in  a  woman.  Even  now,  I  do  not 
— it's  against  reason — I  do  not  believe  that  she — this  Dahlia 
— means  to  go  through  with  it.  She  is  trying  me.  I  have  told 
her  that  she  was  my  wife.  Her  self-respect — everything 
that  keeps  a  woman's  head  up — must  have  induced  her  to 
think  so.  TVTiy,  she  is  not  a  fool !  How  can  she  mean  to 
give  herself  to  an  ignorant  country  donkey  ?  She  does  not : 
mark  me.  For  her,  who  is  a  really — I  may  say,  the  most 
refined  nature  I  have  ever  met,  to  affect  this,  and  think  of 
deceiving  me,  does  not  do  credit  to  her  wits — and  she  is  not 
without  her  share. 

"  I  did  once  mean  that  she  should  be  honourably  allied 
to  me.  It's  comforting  that  the  act  is  not  the  wife  of  the 
intention,  or  I  should  now  be  yoked  to  a  mere  thixig  of  the 
seasons  and  the  hours — a  creature  whose  '  No  '  to-day  is  the 
'  Tes  '  of  to-morrow.  Women  of  this  cast  are  sure  to  end 
comfortably  for  themselves,  they  are  so  obedient  to  the  whips 
of  Providence. 

"  But  I  tell  you  candidly,  Algy,  I  beheve  she's  pushing 
me,  that  she  may  see  how  far  I  will  let  her  go.  I  do  not 
permit  her  to  play  at  this  game  with  me.  The  difficulty  is 
in  teaching  women  that  we  are  not  constituted  as  they  are, 
and  that  we  are  wilfully  earnest,  while  they,  who  never  can 
be  so  save  under  compulsion,  caiTy  it  on  \sath  us,  expecting 
that  at  a  certain  crisis  a  curtain  will  drop,  and  we  shall  take 
a  deep  breath,  join  hands,  and  exclaim,  '  What  an  exciting 
play  !' — weeping  luxuriously.     The  actualities  of  life  must 


234  RnODA  FLEMING. 

be  braiuled  on   their   backs — you  can't  get  their  brains  to 
api)relu'nd  thi-m. 

"  Poor  thinrrs !  they  need  pity.  I  am  ready  to  confess  I 
did  not  keep  my  ])i-()Tiiise  to  her.  I  am  very  soriy  she  has 
been  ill.  ()f  course,  havin;^^  no  brains — nothing  but  sensa- 
tions wherewith  to  combat  every  new  revolution  of  fortune, 
she  can't  but  fall  ill.  But  I  think  of  her;  and  I  wish  to 
God  I  did  not.  She  is  going  to  enter  her  own  S])here — 
though,  mark  me,  it  will  turn  out  as  I  say,  that,  when  it 
comes  to  the  crisis,  there  will  be  shrieks  and  astonishment 
that  the  curtain  doesn't  fall  and  the  whole  resolve  itself  to 
what  they  call  a  dream — in  our  language,  a  farce. 

"  I  am  astonished  that  there  should  be  no  letters  for  me. 
I  can  undei'stand  her  not  writing  at  first ;  but  apparently 
she  cherishes  rancour.  It  is  not  like  her.  I  can't  help 
thinking  there  must  be  one  letter  from  her,  and  that  you 
keep  it  back.  I  remember  that  I  told  you  when  I  left 
England  I  desired  to  have  no  letter  forwarded  to  me,  but 
I  have  repeatedly  asked  you  since  if  there  was  a  letter,  and 
it  appears  to  me  that  you  have  shufHed  in  your  answer.  I 
mei'ely  wish  to  know  if  thei'c  is  a  letter ;  because  I  am  at 
present  out  in  my  study  of  her  character.  It  seems  mon- 
strous that  she  should  never  have  written  !  Don't  you  view 
it  in  that  light  ?  To  be  icady  to  break  with  me,  without 
one  good-bye  ! — it's  gratifying,  but  1  am  astonished;  for  so 
gentle  and  tender  a  creature,  such  as  I  knew  her,  never 
existed  to  compare  with  her.  Ce  qui  est  bien  la  preuvo  qui 
je  ne  la  connaissais  ])as !  I  thought  1  did,  which  was  my 
error.  I  have  a  fatal  habit  of  trusting  to  my  observation 
less  than  to  my  divining  wit ;  and  La  Rochefoucauld  is 
right:  'on  est  quelqucfois  un  sot  avec  del'esprit;  mais  on 
ne  lest  jamais  avec  du  jugement.'  Well!  better  be  deceived 
in  a  character  than  doubt  it. 

"This  will  soon  be  over.  Then  back  to  the  dear  old 
dusky  chainbers,  with  the  pick  and  the  axe  in  the  mine  of 
law,  till  I  strike  a  gold  vein,  and  follow  it  to  the  woolsack. 
I  want  peace.  I  begin  to  hate  pleading.  I  hope  to  meet 
Death  full-wigged.  J3y  my  troth,  I  will  look  as  grimly  at 
him  as  he  at  me.  Meantime,  during  a  vacation,  I  will  give 
you  holiday  (or  better,  in  the  February  days,  if  I  can  spare 
time  and  Equity  is  dispensed  without  my  aid),  dine  you, 
and  put  you  in  the  whirl  of  Paris.     You  deser-^e  a  holiday, 


edwaed's  letter.  235 

J7nnc  est  hihendnm  !  You  shall  sing  it.  Tell  me  what  you 
think  of  her  behaviour.  Yo-u  are  a  judge  of  women.  I  think 
I  am  developing  nerves.  In  fact,  work  is  what  I  need— a 
file  to  bite.  And  send  me  also  the  name  of  this  man  who 
has  made  the  bargain— who  is  to  be  her  husband.  Give 
me  a  description  of  him.  It  is  my  duty  to  see  that  he  has 
principle ;  at  least  we're  bound  to  investigate  his  character, 
if  it's  really  to  go  on.  I  wonder  whether  you  will  ever 
perceive  the  comedy  of  life.  I  doubt  whether  a  man  is 
happier  when  he  does  perceive  it.  Perhaps  the  fact  is,  that 
he  has  by  that  time  lost  his  power  of  laughter ;  except  in 
the  case  of  here  and  there  a  very  tremendous  philosopher. 

"  I  believe  that  we  comic  creatui-es  suffer  mor-e  than  your 
tragic  personages.  We,  do  you  see,  are  always  looking  to 
be  happy  and  comfortable ;  but  in  a  tragedy,  the  doomed 
wretches  are  liver-complexioned  from  the  opening  act.  Their 
laughter  is  the  owl :  their  broadest  smile  is  twilight.  All 
the  menacing  horrors  of  an  eclipse  are  ours,  for  we  have  a 
sun  over  us  ;  but  they  are  born  in  sliades,  with  the  tuck  of 
a  curtain  showing  light,  and  little  can  be  taken  from  them  ; 
so  that  they  find  scarce  any  terrors  in  the  inevitable  final 
stroke.  No  ;  the  comedy  is  painfullest.  You  and  I,  Algy, 
old  bachelors,  will  earn  the  right  just  to  chuckle.  We  will 
take  the  point  of  view  of  science,  be  the  stage  carpenters, 
and  let  the  actors  move  on  and  off.  By  this,  we  shall  learn 
to  take  a  certain  pride  in  the  machinery.  To  become  stage 
carpenter,  is  to  attain  to  tbe  highest  rank  within  the  reach  of 
intellectual  man.  But  your  own  machinery  must  be  sound, 
or  you  can't  look  after  that  of  the  theatre.  Don't  over-tax 
thy  stomach,  0  youth  ! 

"  And  now,  farewell,  my  worthy  ass !  You  have  been 
thinking  me  one  through  a  fair  half  of  this  my  letter,  so  I 
hasten  to  be  in  advance  of  you,  by  calling  you  one.  You 
are  one:  I  likewise  am  one.  We  are  all  one.  The  universal 
language  is  hee-haw,  done  in  a  grievous  yawn. 

"  Tours, 

"Edward  B. 

"P.*5. — Don  t  fail  to  send  a  letter  by  the  next  post ;  then, 
go  and  see  her ;  write  again  exactly  what  she  says,  and  let 
me  know  the  mans  name.     You  will  not  lose  a  m,inute.     Also, 


2:]Q  EnoDA  flemino. 

don't  waste  ink  in  putting;'  Mrs.  Lovcll's  name  to  paper:  I 
desire  not  to  hear  anything  of  the  "woman." 

Algernon  read  this  letter  in  a  profound  mj-stification, 
marvi'llint,''  how  it  could  possibly  be  tliat  Kdward  and  Mrs. 
Lovell  had  quarx-elled  once  more,  and  without  meeting. 

They  had  jiaitcd,  he  knew  or  su])])()sed  that  he  kiiew, 
under  an  eni(a^enR'nt  to  arrange  the  ])irlinnnaries  of  an 
alliance,  when  Edward  should  return  from  France  ;  in  other 
words,  when  Edward  had  thrown  grave-dust  on  a  nauLfhty 
portion  of  his  ])a,st ;  sevei-ing  an  unwise  connection.  iSuch 
had  certainly  been  Edward's  view  of  the  matter.  But  Mrs. 
Lovell  had  never  spoken  to  Algernon  on  that  subject.  She 
had  spoken  willingly  and  in  deep  sympathy  of  Dahlia.  She 
had  visited  her,  pitied  her,  comforted  her ;  and  Algernon 
remembered  tliat  she  had  looked  very  keen  and  pinched 
about  the  mouth  in  alluding  to  Dahlia;  but  how  she  and 
Edward  had  managed  to  arrive  at  another  misuuder.standing 
was  a  prodigious  puzzle  to  him ;  and  why,  if  their  engage- 
ment had  snapped,  each  consented  to  let  Dahlia's  marriage 
(which  was  evidently  distasteful  to  both)  go  on  to  the  con- 
clusion of  the  ceremony,  he  could  not  comprehend.  There 
were,  however,  so  many  things  in  the  world  that  he  could 
not  comprehend,  and  he  had  grown  so  accustomed,  after  an 
effort  to  master  a  diliiculty,  to  lean  his  head  back  upon  downy 
ignoi-ance,  that  he  treated  this  significant  letter  of  Edward'8 
like  a  tough  lesson,  and  fjuietly  put  it  by,  together  with  every 
recommendation  it  contained.  For  all  that  was  practical  in 
it,  it  might  just  as  well  not  have  been  written. 

The  value  of  the  letter  lies  in  the  exhibition  it  presents  of 
a  rather  markworthy  young  man,  who  has  passed  through 
the  hands  of  a — (what  I  must  call  her ;  and  in  doing  so,  I  ask 
pardon  of  all  the  Jack  Cades  of  Letters,  who,  in  the  absence 
of  a  grammatical  king  and  a  government,  sit  as  lords  u]ion 
the  English  tongue)  a  crucible-wonum.  She  may  be  inex- 
cusable hei'self ;  but  you — for  you  to  be  base,  for  you  to  be 
cowardly,  even  to  betiay  a  weakness,  though  it  be  on 
her  behalf, — though  you  can  plead  that  all  you  have  done 
is  for  her,  yea,  was  partly  instigated  by  her,  — it  will  cause 
her  to  dismiss  you  with  the  inexorable  contemjit  of  Xature, 
'nhen  she  has  tried  one  of  her  creatiu-es  and  found  him 
wanting. 


FURTHERMORE  OP  THE  FOOL.  237 

Margaret  Lovell  was  of  this  description:  a  woman  fasWoned 
to  do  both  harm  and  good,  and  more  of  harm  than  of  good  ; 
but  never  to  sanction  a  scheme  of  evil  or  blink  at  it  in  alli- 
ance with  another  :  a  woman,  in  contact  with  whom  yon  wer6 
soon  resolved  to  vonr  component  elements.  Separated  from 
a  certain  fascination  •  that  there  was  for  her  in  Edward's 
acerb  wit,  she  saw  that  he  was  doing  a  dastardly  thing  in 
cold  blood.  We  need  not  examine  their  coi-respondence.  In 
a  few  weeks  she  had  contrived  to  put  a  chasm  between  them 
as  lovers.  Had  he  remained  in  England,  boldly  facing  his 
own  evil  actions,  she  would  have  been  subjugated,  for  how- 
ever keenly  she  might  pierce  to  the  true  character  of  a  man, 
the  show  of  an  unflinching  courage  dominated  her ;  but  his 
departure,  leaving  all  the  brutality  to  be  done  for  him  behind 
his  back,  filled  this  woman  with  a  cutting  spleen.  It  is 
Bufficient  for  some  men  to  know  that  they  are  seen  through, 
in  order  to  turn  away  in  loathing  from  her  whom  they  have 
desired  ;  and  when  they  do  thus  turn  away,  they  not  un- 
commonly turn  with  a  rush  of  old  affection  to  those  who 
have  generously  trusted  them  in  the  days  past,  and  blindly 
thought  them  estimable  beings. 

Algernon  was  by  no  means  gifted  to  perceive  whether  this 
was  this  case  with  his  cousin  in  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

FURTHERMORE  OF  THE  FOOL. 

So  long  as  the  fool  has  his  being  in  the  world,  he  will  be 
a  part  of  every  history,  nor  can  I  keep  him  from  his  place 
in  a  narrative  that  is  made  to  revolve  more  or  less  upon  its 
own  wheels.  Algernon  went  to  bed,  completely  forgetting 
Edward  and  his  own  misfortunes,  under  the  influence  of  the 
opiate  of  the  order  for  one  thousand  pounds,  to  be  delivered 
to  him  upon  application.  The  morning  found  him  calmly 
cheerful,  until  a  little  parcel  was  brought  to  his  door,  together 
with  a  note  from  ]\Irs.  Lovell,  explaining  that  the  parcel 
contained  those  jewels,  his  precious  gifts  of  what  she  had 
insultingly  chosen  to  call  '  esteem  '  for  her. 


238  RnODA  FLEMING. 

Algernon  took  it  in  his  hand,  and  thought  of  flinging  it 
through  the  window ;  but  as  the  window  happened  to  be 
open,  he  checked  the  iinpulse,  and  sent  it  with  great  force 
into  a  corner  of  the  room:  a  perfectly  fool-like  proceeding, 
for  the  fool  is,  after  his  fashion,  jnnulcnt,  and  will  never,  if 
he  can  help  it,  do  himself  thorough  damage,  that  he  may 
learn  by  it  and  be  wiser. 

"  I  never  stand  insult,"  he  uttered,  self-approvingly,  and 
felt  manlier.  "  No ;  not  even  from  you,  ma'am,"  he  apos- 
trophized Mrs.  Lovell's  portrait,  that  had  no  rival  now  upon 
the  wall,  and  that  gave  him  a  sharp  tight  for  the  preservation 
of  his  anger,  so  bewitching  she  was  to  see.  Her  not  sending 
up  word  that  she  wished  him  to  come  to  her  rendei-ed  his 
battle  easier. 

"  It  looks  rather  like  a  break  between  us,"  he  said.  "If 
80,  you  won't  find  me  so  obedient  to  your  caprices,  ]\Irs. 
Mai'garet  L. ;  though  you  are  a  pretty  woman,  and  know  it. 
Smile  away.  I  prefer  a  staunch,  true  soi-t  of  a  woman,  after 
all.  And  the  colonies  it  must  be,  I  begin  to  suspect."  This 
set  him  conjuring  before  his  eyes  the  image  of  Rhoda,  iiniil 
he  cried,  "  I'll  be  hanged  if  the  girl  doesn't  haunt  me  !"  and 
considered  the  matter  with  some  curiosity. 

He  was  quickly  away,  and  across  the  square  of  Lincoln's 
Inn  Fields  to  the  attorney's  firm,  where  apparently  his 
coming  was  expected,  and  he  was  told  that  the  money  would 
be  placed  in  his  hands  on  the  following  day.  He  then  com- 
municated with  Edward,  in  the  brief  Cst^sarian  tongue  of  the 
telegraph :  "  All  right.  Stay.  Ceremony  arranged."  After 
which,  he  hailed  a  skimming  cab,  and  pronouncing  the  word 
"  Epsom,"  sank  back  in  it,  and  felt  in  his  breast-pocket  for 
his  cigar-case,  without  casting  one  glance  of  interest  at  the 
deep  fit  of  cogitation  the  cabman  had  been  thrown  into  by 
the  suddenness  of  the  order. 

"  Dash'd  if  it  ain't  the  veiy  thing  I  went  and  gone  and 
dreamed  last  night,"  said  the  cabman,  as  he  made  his  dis- 
positions to  commence  the  journey. 

Ceitain  boys  advised  him  to  whip  it  away  as  hard  as  ho 
could,  and  he  would  come  in  the  winner. 

"  Where  shall  I  grub,  sir  ?"  the  cabman  asked  through 
the  little  door  above,  to  get  some  knowledge  of  the  quality 
of  his  fai'C. 

*'  Eat  yuur  '  grub  '  on  the  course,"  said  Algernon. 


FUETHERMOEE  OP  THE  FOOL.  239 

"  "Ne'er  a  hamper  to  take  up  nowheres,  is  there,  sir  ?" 

"Do  Yon  like  the  sight  of  one  ?" 

«  Weil,  it  ain't  what  I  object  to." 

"  Then  go  fast,  my  man,  and  jou  will  soon  see  plenty." 

"  If  yoTi  took  to  chaffin'  a  bit  later  in  the  day,  it  'd  impart 
more  confidence  to  my  bosom,"  said  the  cabman;  but  this 
lie  said  to  that  bosom  alone. 

"  Ain't  no  particular  colours  you'd  like  me  to  wear,  is 
there?  I'll  get  a  rosette,  if  you  like,  sir,  and  enter  in 
triamph.  Gives  ye  something  to  stand  by.  That's  always 
my  remark,  founded  on  observation." 

"  Go  to  the  deuce  !  Drive  on,"  Algernon  sung  out.  "  Red, 
yellow,  and  green." 

"  Lobster,  ale,  and  salad !"  said  the  cabman,  flicking  his 
whip  ;  "  and  good  colours  too.  Tenpenny  Nail's  the  horse. 
He's  the  colours  I  stick  to."  And  off  he  drove,  envied  of 
London  urchias,  as  mortals  would  have  envied  a  charioteer 
di'iving  visibly  for  Olympus. 

Algernon  crossed  his  arms,  with  the  frown  of  one  looking 
all  inward. 

At  school  this  youth  had  hated  suras.  All  arithmetical 
difficulties  had  confused  and  sickened  him.  But  now  he 
worked  with  indefatigable  industry  on  an  imaginary  slate ; 
put  his  postulate,  counted  probabilities,  allowed  for  chances, 
aided,  deducted,  multiplied,  and  unknowingly  performed 
algebraic  feats,  till  his  brows  were  stiff  with  fro^Tiing,  and 
his  brain  craved  for  stimulant. 

This  necessity  sent  his  hand  to  his  purse,  for  the  calling 
of  the  cab  had  not  been  a  premeditated  matter.  He  dis- 
covered therein  some  half-crowns  and  a  sixpence,  the  latter 
of  which  he  tossed  in  contempt  at  some  boys  who  were 
cheering  the  vehicles  on  their  gallant  career. 

There  was  something  desperately  amusing  to  him  in  the 
thought  that  he  had  not  even  money  enough  to  pay  the  cab- 
man, or  provide  for  a  repast.  He  rollicked  in  his  present 
poverty.  Yesterday  he  had  run  down  with  a  party  of 
young  guardsmen  in  a  very  royal  manner  ;  and  yesterday  he 
had  lost.  To-day  he  journeyed  to  the  course  poorer  than 
many  of  the  beggars  he  would  find  there ;  and  by  a  natural 
deduction,  to-day  he  was  to  win. 

He  whistled  mad  waltzes  to  the  measure  of  the  wheels. 
He  believed  that  he  had  a  star.     He  pitched  his  half-crowns 


210  EnODA  PLEMIKO. 

to  the  tnrnpilco-mcn,  and  sonq-ht  to  propitiate  Fortune  by 
displaviiiLif  a  sit^nal  indilTereiico  to  small  chancre  ;  in  which 
nit'tliod  of  coiirtiuL,' hcT  he  was  pertcctly  serious.  He  al)so- 
lutely  rejected  coppers.  They  'crossed  his  luck.'  Nor  can 
Ave  say  tliat  he  is  not  an  authority  on  this  point:  the  God- 
dess certainly  does  not  deal  in  coppers. 

Anxious  cilorts  at  recollection  perplexed  him.  He  could 
not  remember  whether  he  had  '  turned  his  money  '  on  look- 
ing at  the  last  new  moon.  Wheii  had  he  seen  the  last  new 
moon,  and  where  ?  A  cloud  obscured  it ;  he  had  forgotten. 
He  consoled  himself  by  cursing  superstition.  Tenpenny 
Nail  was  to  gain  the  day  in  spite  of  Fortune.  Algernon 
said  this,  and  entrenched  his  fluttering  spirit  behind  common 
sense,  but  he  found  it  a  cold  corner.  The  longing  for 
Champagne  stimulant  increased  in  fervour.  Arithmetic 
Janguished. 

As  he  was  going  up  the  hill,  the  wheels  were  still  for  a 
moment,  and  hearing  "  Tenpenny  Nail  "  shouted,  he  put 
forth  his  head,  and  asked  what  the  cry  was,  concerning  that 
horse. 

"  Gone  lame,"  was  the  answer. 

It  hit  the  centre  of  his  nerves,  wuthont  reaching  his  com- 
prehension, and  all  En.;'lishmen  being  equal  on  Epsom 
Downs,  his  stare  at  the  man  who  had  spoken,  and  his  sickly 
colour,  exposed  him  to  pungent  remarks. 

"  llulloa  !  here's  another  Ninepenny — a  penny  short !" 
and  similar  specimens  of  Epsom  Avit,  encouraged  by  the 
winks  and  retorts  of  his  driver,  surrounded  him ;  but  it  was 
emjity  clamour  outside.  A  rage  of  emotions  drowned  every 
idea  in  his  head,  and  when  he  got  one  clear  from  the  mass, 
it  took  the  form  of  a  bitter  sneer  at  Providence,  for  ciitting 
off  his  last  chance  of  reforming  his  conduct  and  becoming 
good.  What  would  he  not  have  accomplished,  that  was 
brilliant,  and  beautiful,  and  soothing,  but  for  this  dead  set 
against  him ! 

It  was  clear  that  Providence  cared  'not  a  rap,'  whetluM- he 
won  or  lost — was  good  or  bad.  One  might  just  as  well  be  a 
heathen  ;  Avhy  not  ? 

He  jumped  out  of  the  cab  (tearing  his  coat  in  the  act — a 
minor  evil,  but  'all  of  a  piece,'  as  he  said),  and  made  his 
•way  to  the  Ring.  The  bee-swafm  was  thick  as  ever  on  the 
golden  bough.      Algernon  heard  no  curses,    and  began   to 


FURTHERMORE  OP  THE  POOL.  241 

nourish  hope  again,  as  he  advanced.  He  began  to  hope 
wildly  that  this  rumour  about  the  horse  was  a  falsity,  for 
there  was  no  commotion,  no  one  declaiming. 

He  pushed  to  enter  the  roaring  circle,  which  the  demand 
for  an  entrance-fee  warned  him  was  a  privilege,  and  he 
stammered,  and  forgot  the  gentlemanly  coolness  commonly 
distinguishing  him,  under  one  of  the  acuter  twinges  of  his 
veteran  complaint  of  impecuniosity.  And  then  the  cabman 
made  himself  heard  :  a  civil  cabman,  but  without  directions, 
and  uncertain  of  his  dinner  and  his  pay,  tolerably  hot,  a^so, 
from  threading  a  crowd  after  a  deaf  gentleman.  His  half- 
injured  look  restored  to  Algernon  his  self-possession. 

"  Ah  !  there  you  are : — scurry  away  and  fetch  my  purse 
out  of  the  bottom  of  the  cab.     I've  dropped  it." 

On  this  errand,  the  confiding  cabman  retired.  Holding 
to  a  gentleman's  purse  is  even  securer  than  holding  to  a 
gentleman. 

While  Algernon  was  working  his  forefinsfer  in  his  waist- 
coat-pocket  reflectively,  a  man  at  his  elbow  said,  with  a  show 
of  familiar  deference — 

"  If  it's  any  convenience  to  you,  sir,"  and  showed  the  rim 
of  a  gold  piece  'tvvixt  linger  and  thumb. 

"  All  right,"  Algernon  replied  readily,  and  felt  that  he 
was  known,  but  tried  to  keep  his  eyes  from  looking  at  the 
man's  face ;  which  was  a  vain  effort.  He  took  the  money, 
nodded  curtly,  and  passed  in. 

Once  through  the  barrier,  he  had  no  time  to  be  ashamed. 
He  was  in  the  atmosphere  of  challenges.  He  heard  voices, 
and  saw  men  whom  not  to  challenge,  or  try  a  result  with, 
was  to  acknowledge  oneself  mean,  and  to  abandon  the  man- 
liness of  life.  Algernon's  betting-book  Avas  soon  out  and  in 
operation.  While  thus  engaged,  he  beheld  faces  passing  and 
repassing  that  were  the  promise  of  luncheon  and  a  loan  ;  and 
so  comfortable  was  the  assurance  thereof  to  him,  that  he  laid 
the  thought  of  it  aside,  quite  in  the  background,  and  went  on 
betting  with  an  easy  mind. 

Small,  senseless  bets,  they  merely  occupied  him;  and 
winning  them  was  really  less  satisfactory  than  losing,  which, 
at  all  events,  had  the  merit  of  adding  to  the  bulk  of  his  accu- 
sation against  the  ruling  Powers  unseen. 

Algernon  was  too  savage  for  betting  when  the  great  race 
was  run.     He  refused  both  at   taunts  and  cajoleries  j  but 

B 


L*42  EHODA  FLEMINO. 

Lord  SucTcling  coming  by,  said  "  Name  your  horse,"  and, 
caught  unawares,  Algernon  named  "  Little  John,"  one  of  the 
ruck,  at  a  hazard.  Lord  Suckling  gave  him  fair  odds,  asking : 
"  In  tens  ?— fifties  ?" 

"  Silver,"  shrugged  Algernon,  implacable  toward  Fortune, 
and  the  kindly  young  nobleman  nodilod,  and  made  allowance 
for  his  ill-temper  and  want  of  spirit,  knowing  the  stake  he 
had  laid  on  the  favourite. 

'  Little  John  '  startled  the  field  by  coming  in  first  at  a 
canter. 

"  Men  have  committed  suicide  for  less  than  this,"  said 
Algernon  within  his  lips,  and  a  modest  expression  of  sub- 
mission to  fate  settled  on  his  countenance.  He  stuck  to  the 
King  till  he  was  haggard  with  fatigue.  His  whole  nature 
cried  out  for  Champagne,  and  now  he  burst  away  from  that 
devilish  circle,  looking  about  for  Lord  Suckling  and  a 
hamper.  Food  and  a  frothing  drink  were  all  that  he  asked 
from  Fortune.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  concourse  on  the 
Downs  shifted  in  a  restless  way. 

"  AVhat's  doing,  I  wonder  ?"  he  thought  aloud. 

"Why,  sir,  the  last  race  ain't  generally  fashionable,"  said 
his  cabman,  appearing  from  behind  his  shoulder.  "  Don't 
you  happen  to  be  peckish,  sir  r" — 'cause,  luck  or  no  luck, 
that's  my  case.     I  couldn't  see  your  purse,  nowlieres." 

"  Confound  you  !  how  you  hang  about  me  !  What  do  you 
"want  ?"  Algernon  cried ;  and  answered  his  own  question, 
by  speeding  the  cabman  to  a  booth  with  what  money  re- 
mained to  him,  and  appointing  a  place  of  meeting  for  the 
return.  After  which  he  glanced  round  furtively  to  make 
sure  that  he  was  not  in  view  of  the  man  Avho  had  lent  liira 
the  sovereign.  It  became  evident  that  the  downs  were  How- 
ing  back  to  London. 

He  hurried  along  the  lines  of  cairiagcs,  all  getting  into 
motion.  The  ghastly  conviction  overtook  him  that  he  was 
left  fi-iendless,  to  starve.  Wherever  he  turned,  he  saw  stran- 
gers and  empty  hampers,  bottles,  straw,  waste  paper — the 
ruins  of  the  feast:  Fate's  irony  meantime  besetting  him  with 
beggars,  who  swallowed  his  imprecations  as  the  earnest  of 
coming  charity  in  such  places. 

At  last,  he  was  brought  almost  to  sigh  that  ho  might  see 
the  man  who  had  lent  him  the  sovereign,  and  his  wish  was 
hardly  foi-med,  when  Nicodemus  Sedgett  approached,  waving 


FURTHEKMOEE  OP  THE  FOOL.  243 

a  hat  encircled  by  preposterous  wooden  figures,  a  trifle  less 
lightly  attired  than  the  ladies  of  the  ballet,  and  as  bold  in 
the  matter  of  leg  as  the  female  fashion  of  the  period. 

Algernon  eyed  the  lumpy-headed,  heavy-browed  rascal 
with  what  disgust  he  had  left  in  him,  for  one  who  came 
as  an  instrument  of  the  Fates  to  help  him  to  some  poor 
refreshment.  Sedgett  informed  him  that  he  had  never  had 
such  fun  in  his  life. 

"  Just  'fore  matrimony,"  he  communicated  in  a  dull 
whisper,  "  a  fellow  ought  to  see  a  bit  'o  the  world,  I  says 
• — don't  yon,  sir  ?  and  this  has  been  rare  sport,  that  it  has  ! 
Did  ye  find  your  purse,  sir  ?  Never  mind  'bout  that  ther' 
pound.  I'll  lend  you  another,  if  ye  like.  How  sh'll  it  be  ? 
Say  the  word." 

Alo-ernon  was  meditating,  apparently  on  a  remote  subject. 
He  nodded  sharj^ly. 

"  Yes.     Call  at  my  chambers  to-morrow." 

Another  sovereign  was  transferred  to  him :  but  Sedgett 
would  not  be  shaken  off. 

"  I  just  wanted  t'  have  a  bit  of  a  talk  with  yon,"  he  spoke 
low. 

"  Hang  it !  I  haven't  eaten  all  day,"  snapped  the  irritable 
young-  gentleman,  fearful  now  of  being  seen  in  the  rascal's 
company. 

"  You  come  along  to  the  jolliest  booth — I'll  show  it  to 
you,"  said  Sedgett,  and  lifted  one  leg  in  dancing  attitude. 
"  Come  along,  sir  :  the  jolliest  booth  I  ever  was  in,  dang  me 
if  it  ain't !  Ale  and  music  — them's  my  darlings  !"  the  wretch 
vented  his  slang.  "  And  I  must  have  a  talk  with  you.  I'll 
stick  to  you.  I'm  social  when  I'm  jolly,  that  I  be :  and  I 
don't  know  a  chap  on  these  here  do\\T2s.  Here's  the  pint : 
Ts  all  square  ?  Am  I  t'  have  the  cash  in  cash  counted 
down,  I  asks  ?  And  is  it  to  be  before,  or  is  it  to  be  after, 
the  ceremony  ?     There  !  bang  out !  say,  yes  or  no." 

Algernon  sent  him  to  perdition  with  infinite  heartiness, 
but  he  was  dry,  dispirited,  and  weak,  and  he  walked  on, 
Sedgett  accompanying  him.  He  entered  a  booth,  and  par- 
took of  ale  and  ham,  feeling  that  he  was  in  the  dregs  of 
calamity.  Though  the  ale  did  some  ser\dce  in  reviving,  it 
did  not  cheer  him,  and  he  had  a  fit  of  moral  objection  to 
Sodgett's  discourse. 

Sedgett  took  his  bluntness  as  a  matter  to  be  endured  for 

r2  . 


1^44  RnODA  FLEMING. 

the  honour  of  hob-anobbing  with  a  gentlemaTi.  Several 
times  he  recurred  to  the  theme  which,  he  wanted,  as  he  said, 
to  have  a  talk  upon. 

He  related  how  he  had  courted  the  young  woman,  "  bash- 
ful-like," and  had  been  so ;  for  she  was  a  splendid  young 
woman ;  not  so  handsome  now,  as  she  used  to  be  Avlicn  he 
had  seen  lier  in  the  winter :  but  her  illness  had  pulled  her 
down  and  made  her  humble  :  tlicy  had  cut  her  hair  during 
the  fever,  which  had  taken  her  pride  clean  out  of  her ;  and 
when  he  had  put  the  question  to  her  on  the  evening  of  last 
Sunday,  she  had  gone  into  a  sort  of  faint,  and  he  walked 
away  with  her  affirmative  locked  up  in  his  breast-pocket, 
and  was  resolved  always  to  treat  her  well  —  which  he 
swore  to. 

"  Married,  and  got  the  money,  and  the  lease  o'  my  farm 
disposed  of,  I'm  oif  to  Australia  and  leave  old  England 
behind  me,  and  thank  ye,  mother,  thank  ye  !  and  we  shan't 
meet  again  in  a  hurry.  And  what  sort  o'  song  I'm  to  sing 
for  '  England  is  my  nation,'  ain't  come  across  me  yet.  Aus- 
tralia's such  a  precious  big  woj-ld  ;  but  that'll  come  easy  in 
time.  And  there'll  I  farm,  and  damn  all  you  gentlemen,  if 
you  come  anigh  me." 

The  eyes  of  the  fellow  were  fierce  as  he  uttered  this  ;  they 
were  rendered  tierce  by  a  peculiar  blackish  flush  that  came 
on  his  brows  and  cheek-bones  ;  otherwise,  the  yellow  about 
the  little  brown  dot  in  the  centre  of  the  eye-ball  had  net 
changed ;  but  the  look  was  unmistakably  savage,  animal, 
and  bad.  lie  closed  the  lids  on  them,  and  gave  a  sort  of 
churlish  smile  immediately  afterward. 

"  Harmony's  the  game.  You  act  fair,  I  act  fair.  I've 
kept  to  the  condition.  She  don't  know  anything  of  my 
whereabouts — res'dence,  I  mean;  and  thinks  I  met  you  in 
her  room  for  the  first  time.  That's  the  truth,  Mr.  Blancove. 
And  thinks  me  a  slieei)ish  chap,  and  I'm  that,  when  I'm 
along  wi'  her.  She  can't  make  out  how  I  come  to  call  at 
her  house  and  know  her  first.  Gives  up  guessing,  I  suppose, 
for  she's  quiit  about  it ;  and  I  pitch  her  tales  about  Aus- 
tralia, and  life  out  there.  I've  got  her  to  smile,  once  or 
twice.  She'll  turn  her  hand  to  making  cheeses,  never  you 
fear.  Only,  this  I  say.  I  must  have  the  money.  It's  a 
thousand  and  a  bargain.  No  thousand,  and  no  wife  for  me. 
Not  that  I  don't  stand  by  the  agreement.     I'm  solid." 


FURTHEEMOKE  OF  THE  FOOL.  245 

Algernon  had  no  power  of  encountering  a  tuman  eye 
steadily,  or  he  ^vould  have  shown  the  man  with  a  look  how 
repulsive  he  was  to  a  gentleman.  His  sensations  grew 
remorseful,  as  if  he  were  guilty  of  handing  a  victim  to  the 
wretch. 

But  the  woman  followed  her  own  inclination,  did  she  not  ? 
There  was  no  compulsion :  she  accepted  this  man.  And  if 
she  could  do  that,  pity  was  wasted  on  her  ! 

So  thought  he :  and  so  the  world  would  think  of  the  poor 
forlorn  soul  striving  to  expiate  her  fault,  that  her  father 
and  sister  might  be  at  peace,  without  shame. 

Alarernon  sisrnified  to  Sedsrett  that  the  agreement  was 
fixed  and  irrevocable  on  his  part. 

Sedgett  gulped  some  ale. 

"  Hands  on  it,"  he  said,  and  laid  his  huge  hand  open 
across  the  table. 

This  was  too  much. 

*'  My  Avord  must  satisfy  you,"  said  Algernon,  rising. 

"  So  it  shall.  So  it  do,"  returned  Sedgett,  rising  with 
him.     "  Will  you  give  it  in  writing  ?" 

"  I  won't." 

"  That's  blunt.  Will  you  come  and  have  a  look  at  a 
Bparring-match  in  yond'  broAvn  booth,  sir  ?" 

"  I  am  going  back  to  London." 

"  London  and  the  theayter — that's  the  fun,  now,  ain't  it  1" 
Sedgett  laughed. 

Algernon  discerned  his  cabman  and  the  conveyance  ready, 
and  beckoned  him. 

"  Perhaps,  sir,"  said  Sedgett,  "  if  I  might  make  so  bold — 
I  don't  want  to  speak  o'  them  sovereigns — but  I've  got  to 
get  back  too,  and  cash  is  run  low.  D'ye  mind,  sir?  Are 
you  kind-hearted  ?" 

A  constitutional  habit  of  servility  to  his  creditor  when 
present  before  him  signalized  Algernon.  He  detested  the 
man,  but  his  feebleness  was  seized  by  the  latter  question, 
and  he  fancied  he  might,  on  the  road  to  London,  convey 
to  Sedgett's  mind  that  it  would  be  well  to  split  that  thou- 
sand, as  he  had  |#reviously  devised. 

"  Jump  in,"  he  said. 

When  Sedsrett  was  seated,  Alsrernon  would  have  been 
glad  to  walk  the  distance  to  London  to  escape  from  the 
unwholesome    proximity.      He    took   the   vacant   place,    in 


246  EUODA  FLEMING. 

horror  of  it.  The  man  had  hitherto  appeared  respectful; 
and  in  Dahlia's  presence  he  had  seemed  a  gentle  big  fellow 
■vvitli  a  reverent,  allVctionate  heart.     Sedgett  rallied  him. 

"  You've  had  bad  luck — that's  wrote  on  your  hatband. 
"Now,  if  you  was  a  Moman,  I'd  say,  tak'  and  go  and  have  a 
peroose  o'  your  Bible.  That's  what  my  young  woman  does  ; 
and  by  George!  it's  just  like  medicine  to  her — that 'tis'  ^'ve 
read  out  to  lier  till  1  could  ha' swallowed  two  quart  o'  beerat 
a  gulp — 1  was  that  mortal  thirsty.  It  don't  somehow  seem 
to  ini])rove  men.  It  didn't  do  me  no  gooil.  There  was  I, 
cursin'  at  the  bother,  down  in  my  boots,  like,  and  she  with 
her  hands  in  a  knot,  staring  the  fire  out  o'  count'nance. 
They're  weak,  poor  sort  o'  things." 

The  intolerai3le  talk  of  the  i-uilian  prompted  Algernon  to 
cry  out,  for  I'elief : 

"  A  scoundrel  like  you  must  be  past  any  good  to  be  got 
from  reading  his  Bible." 

Sedgett  turned  his  dull  brown  eyes  on  him,  the  thick  and 
hateful  flush  of  evil  blood  informing  them  with  detestable 
malignity, 

"  Come  ;  you  be  civil,  if  you're  going  to  be  my  companion," 
he  said.  "  I  don't  like  bad  words  ;  they  don't  go  down  my 
wind-pipe.  '  Scoundrel '  's  a  name  I've  got  a  retort  for,  and 
if  it  hadn't  been  you,  and  you  a  gentleman,  you'd  have  had  it 
spanking  hot  from  the  end  o'my  fist.  Peiliaps  you  don't 
know  what  sort  of  a  arm  I've  got  ?  Just  you  feel  that  ther' 
muscle." 

He  doubled  his  arm,  the  knuckles  of  the  fist  toward 
Algernon's  face. 

"Down  with  it,  you  dog!"  cried  Algernon,  crushing  his 
hat  as  he  started  up. 

"It'll  come  on  your  nose,  if  I  downs  with  it,  my  lord,"  said 
Sedgett.  "  You've  what  they  Londoners  calls  '  bonneted 
yourself.'  " 

He  pulled  Algernon  by  the  coat-tail  into  his  seat. 

"  Stop  !"  Algernon  shouted  to  the  cabman. 

*'  Drive  ahead  !"  roared  Sedgett. 

This  signal  of  a  dissension  was  heard  along  the  main  street 
of  Epsom,  and  re-awakened  the  flagging  hilarity  of  the  road. 

Algernon  shrieked  his  commands;  Sedgett  thundei-ed  his. 
They  tussled,  and  each  having  inflicted  an  unjjleasant 
squeeze  on  the  other,  they  came  apart  by  mutual  consent, 


FUETHEEMORE  Of   THE  FOOL.  247 

and  exclianged  half-length,  blows.  Overhead,  the  cabman — 
not  merely  a  cabman,  but  an  individual — flicked  the  flanks 
of  his  horse,  and  cocked  his  eje  and  head  in  answer  to  ges- 
ticulations from  shop-doors  and  pavement. 

"  Let  'em  fight  it  out,  I'm  impartial,"  he  remarked ;  and 
having  lifted  his  little  observing  door,  and  given  one  glance, 
parrot- wise,  below,  he  shat  away  the  troubled  prospect  of 
those  mortals,  and  drove  along  beuis-nly. 

Epsom  permitted  it ;  but  Ewell  contained  a  sturdy  citizen, 
who,  smoking  his  pipe  under  his  eaves,  contemplative  of 
passers-by,  saw  strife  rushing  on  like  a  meteor.  He  raised 
the  waxed  end  of  his  pipe,  and  with  an  authoritative  motion 
of  his  head  at  the  same  time,  pointed  out  the  case  to  a  man 
in  a  donkey-cart,  who  looked  behind,  saw  pugnacity  upon 
wheels,  and  manoeuvred  a  docile  and  wonderfully  pretcy- 
stepping  little  donkey  in  such  a  manner  that  the  cabman  was 
fain  to  pull  up. 

The  combatants  jumped  into  the  road. 

"  That's  right,  gentlemen ;  I  don't  want  to  spile  sport," 
said  the  donkey's  man.  "  0'  course  you  ends  your  Epsom- 
day  with  spirit." 

"  There's  sunset  on  their  faces,"  said  the  cabman.  "  "Would 
you  try  a  by- lane,  gentlemen  ?" 

But  now  the  donkey's  man  had  inspected  the  figures  of  the 
antagonistic  couple. 

'•  'Tain't  fair  play,"  he  said  to  Sedgett.  "You  leave  that 
gentleman  alone,  you,  sir  !" 

The  man  with  the  pipe  came  up. 

"K"o  fighting,'"  he  observed.  "We  ain't  going  to  have 
our  roads  disgraced.  It  shan't  be  said  Englishmen  don't 
know  how  to  enjoy  themselves  without  getting  drunk  and 
disorderly.     Tou  drop  your  fists." 

The  separation  had  to  be  accomplished  by  violence,  for 
Algernon's  blood  was  up. 

A  crowd  was  not  long  in  collecting,  which  caused  a  stoppage 
of  vehicles  of  every  description. 

A  gentleman  leaned  from  an  open  carriage  to  look  at  the 
fray  critically,  and  his  companion  stretching  his  neck  to  do 
likewise,  "  Sedgett !"  burst  from  his  lips  involuntarily. 

The  pair  of  original  disputants  (for  there  were  many  by 
this  time)  tui'ned  their  heads  simultaneously  toward  the 
carriage. 


248  EHODA  FLEMING. 

"  "Will  you  come  on  ?"  Sedgott  roared,  but  wliotlier  to 
Algernon,  or  to  one  of  the  gentlemen,  or  one  of  the  crowd, 
was  indetinite.  None  responding,  he  shook  with  ox-like 
wrath,  ])nslio(l  among  shoulders,  and  plunged  back  to  his 
Beat,  making  the  cabman  above  bound  and  sway,  and  the  cab- 
horse  to  stai"t  and  antic. 

Ciroatly  to  the  amazement  of  the  spectators,  the  manifest 
gentleman  (by  comparison)  who  had  recently  been  at  a  pum- 
melling match  with  him,  and  bore  the  stains  of  it,  hung  his 
head,  stepped  on  the  cab,  and  suffered  himself  to  be  driven 
away. 

"  Sort  of  a  '  man-and-wife '  quarrel,"  was  the  donkey's 
man's  comment.  "  There's  something  as  corks  'em  up,  and 
something  uncorks  'em  ;  but  what  that  something  is,  I  ain't, 
nor  you  ain't,  man  enough  to  inform  the  company." 

He  rubbed  his  little  donkey's  nose  affectionately. 

"  Any  gentleman  open  to  a  bet  I  don't  overtake  that  ere 
Ilansom  within  three  miles  o'  Ewell  ?"  he  asked,  as  he  took 
the  rein. 

But  his  little  donkey's  quality  was  famous  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

"  Come  on,  then,"  he  said ;  "  and  show  what  jou  can  do, 
without  emilation,  Master  Tom." 

Away  the  little  donkey  trotted. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  EXPIATION. 


TnosE  two  in  the  open  carriage,  one  of  whom  had  called 
out  Sedgett's  name,  were  Robert  and  !Major  Waring.  When 
the  cab  had  flown  by,  they  fell  back  into  their  seats,  and 
smoked ;  the  original  stipulation  for  the  day  having  been 
that  no  harassing  matter  should  be  spoken  of  till  nightfall. 

True  to  this,  Robert  tried  to  think  hard  on  the  scene  of 
his  recent  enjoyment.  Hoi-ses  were  to  him  what  music  is  to 
a  poet,  and  the  glory  of  the  Races  he  had  witnessed  Avas  still 
quick  in  heart,  and  partly  counteracted  his  astonishment  at 


THE  EXPIATION.  249 

the  sight  of  his  old  village  enemy  in  company  with  Algernon 
Blancove. 

It  was  not  astonishing  at  all  to  him  that  they  should  have 
quarrelled  and  come  to  blows ;  for  he  knew  Sedgett  well, 
and  the  imperative  necessity  for  fighting  him,  if  only  to 
preserve  a  man's  self-respect  and  the  fair  division  of  peacOj 
when  once  he  had  been  allowed  to  get  upon  terms  sufficiently 
close  to  assert  his  black  nature ;  but  how  had  it  come  about? 
How  was  it  that  a  gentleman  could  consent  to  appear  publicly 
with  such  a  fellow  ?  He  decided  that  it  meant  something, 
and  something  ominous — but  what  ?  Whom  could  it  affect? 
Was  Algernon  Blancove  such  a  poor  creature  that,  feeling 
himself  bound  by  certain  dark  dealings  with  Sedgett  to  keep 
him  quiet,  he  permitted  the  bullying  dog  to  hang  to  his  coat- 
tail  ?  It  seemed  improbable  that  any  young  gentleman 
should  be  so  weak,  but  it  might  be  the  case;  and  "if  so," 
thought  Robert,  "  and  I  let  him  know  I  bear  him  no  ill-will 
for  setting  Sedgett  upon  me,  I  may  be  doing  him  a  service." 

He  remembered  with  pain  Algernon's  glance  of  savage 
humiliation  upward,  just  before  he  turned  to  follow  Sedgett 
into  the  cab  ;  and  considered  that  he  ought  in  kindness  to 
see  him  and  make  him  comfortable  by  apologizing,  as  if  he 
himself  had  no  complaint  to  make. 

He  resolved  to  do  it  when  the  opportunity  should  come. 
Meantime,  what  on  earth  brought  them  together  ? 

"  How  white  the  hedges  are  !"  he  said. 

*'  There's  a  good  deal  of  dust,"  Major  Waring  replied. 

*'  I  wasn't  aware  that  cabs  came  to  the  races." 

*'  They  do,  you  see." 

Robert  perceived  that  Percy  meant  to  fool  him  if  he 
attempted  a  breach  of  the  bond  ;  but  he  longed  so  much  for 
Percy's  opinion  of  the  strange  alliance  between  Sedgett  and 
Algernon  Blancove,  that  at  any  cost  he  was  compelled  to  say, 
"  I  can't  get  to  the  bottom  of  that." 

"  That  squabble  in  the  road  ?"  said  Percy.  "  We  shall 
see  two  or  three  more  before  we  reach  home." 

"  No.  What's  the  meaning  of  a  gentleman  consorting  with 
a  blackguard  ?"  Robert  persisted. 

"  One  orthe  other  has  discovered  an  assimilation,  I  suppose," 
Percy  gave  answer.  "  That's  an  odd  remark  on  returning 
from  Epsom.  Those  who  jump  into  the  same  pond  generally 
come  out  the  samf  colour." 


250  EnODA  FLEMING. 

Robert  spoke  low. 

"  Has  it  anything  to  do  with  tlio  poor  girl,  do  you 
think  ?" 

"  I  told  jou  I  declined  to  think  till  we  were  home  again. 
Confound  it,  man,  have  you  no  idea  of  a  holiday  ?" 

Robert  puffed  his  tobacco-smoke. 

"  Let's  talk  of  Mrs.  Lovell,"  he  said. 

"  That's  not  a  holiday  for  me,"  Percy  murmured ;  but 
Robert's  mind  was  too  preoccupied  to  observe  the  tone,  and 
he  asked: 

"  Is  she  to  be  trusted  to  keep  her  word  faitlifully  this 
time  ?" 

"  Come,"  said  Percy,  "  we  haven't  betted  to-day.  I'll  bet 
you  she  will,  if  you  like.     Will  you  bet  against  it  r*" 

"  I  won't.  I  can't  nibble  at  anything.  Betting's  like 
drinking." 

"  But  you  can  take  a  glass  of  wine.  This  soi-t  of  bet  is 
much  the  same.     However,  don't ;  for  you  would  lose." 

"  There,"  said  Robert ;  "  I've  heard  of  being  angry  with 
women  for  fickleness,  changeablencss,  and  all  sorts  of  other 
things.  She's  a  lady  I  couldn't  undei'stand  being  downright 
angry  with,  and  here's  the  reason — it  ain't  a  matter  of  reason 
at  all — she  fascinates  me.  I  do,  I  declare,  clcau  forget  Rhoda ; 
I  forget  the  girl,  if  only  I  see  Mrs.  Lovell  at  a  distance. 
How's  that  ?  I'm  not  a  fool,  with  nonsensical  fancies  of  any 
kind.  I  know  w^hat  loving  a  woman  is  ;  and  a  man  in  my 
position  might  be  ass  enough  to — all  sorts  of  things.  It 
isn't  that ;  it's  fascination.  I'm  afraid  of  her.  If  she  talks 
to  me,  I  feel  something  like  having  gulped  a  bottle  of  wine. 
Some  women  you  have  a  respect  for  ;  some  you  like  or  you 
love;  some  you  despise:  with  her,  I  just  feel  I'm  intoxicated." 

Major  Waring  eyed  him  steadily.  He  said,  "  I'll  unriddle 
it,  if  I  can,  to  your  comprehension.  She  admires  you  for 
what  you  are,  and  she  lets  you  see  it ;  I  dare  say  she's  not 
unwilling  that  you  should  see  it.  She  has  a  worship  for 
bi-avery  :  it's  a  deadly  passion  with  her." 

Robert  put  up  a  protesting  blush  of  modesty,  as  became 
him.  "  Then  why,  if  she  does  'me  the  honour  to  think  any- 
thing of  me,  does  she  turn  against  me  ?" 

"  Ah  !  now  you  go  deeper.  She  is  giving  you  what  assist- 
ance she  can  ;  at  present :  be  thankful,  if  you  can  be  satisfied 
with   her   present  doings.     Perhaps    I'll    answer  the  other 


THE  EXPIATION.  251 

qnestion  by-and-bye.  I^ow  we  enter  London,  and  our  day 
is  over.     How  did  you  like  it  ?" 

Robert's  imagination  rushed  back  to  the  downs. 

"  The  race  was  glorious.  I  wish  we  could  go  at  that  pace 
in  life  ;  I  should  have  a  certainty  of  winning.  How  miserably 
dull  the  streets  look  ;  and  the  people  creep  along — they  creep, 
and  seem  to  like  it.     Horseback's  my  element." 

They  drove  up  to  Robert's  lodgings,  where,  since  the 
Winter,  he  had  been  living  austerely  and  recklessly;  exiled 
by  his  sensitiveness  from  his  two  homes,  Warbeach  and 
Wrexby  ;  and  seeking  over  London  for  Dahlia — a  pensioner 
on  his  friend's  bounty  ;  and  therein  had  lain  the  degrading 
misery  to  a  man  of  his  composition.  Often  had  he  thought 
of  enlisting  again,  and  getting  di-afted  to  a  foreign  station. 
Nothing  but  the  consciousness  that  he  was  subsisting  on 
money  not  his  own  would  have  kept  him  from  his  vice.  As 
it  was,  he  had  lived  through  the  months  between  Winter  and 
Spring,  like  one  threading  his  way  through  the  tortuous 
lengths  of  a  cavern  ;  never  coming  to  the  light,  but  coming 
upon  absurd  mishaps  in  his  effort  to  reach  it.  His  adventures 
in  London  partook  somewhat  of  the  character  of  those  in 
Warbeach,  minus  the  victim  ;  for  whom  two  or  three  gentle, 
men  in  public  thoroughfares  had  been  taken.  These  mis- 
demeanours, in  the  face  of  civil  society,  Robert  made  no 
mention  of  in  his  letters  to  Percy. 

But  there  was  light  now,  though  at  first  it  gave  but  a 
faint  glimmer,  in  a  lady's  coloured  envelope,  lying  on  the 
sitting-room  table.  Robert  opened  it  hurriedly,  and  read  it ; 
seized  Dahlia's  address,  with  a  brain  on  fire,  and  said  : 

"  It's  signed  '  Margaret  Lovell.'  •  This  time  she  calls  mo 
*  Dear  Sir.'" 

"  She  could  hardly  do  less,"  Percy  remarked. 

*'  I  know  :  but  there  is  a  change  in  her.  There's  a  summer 
in  her  writing  now.  She  has  kept  her  word,  Percy.  She's 
the  dearest  lady  in  the  woi-ld.  I  don't  ask  why  she  didn't 
help  me  before." 

"You  acknowledge  the  policy  of  mild  measures,"  said 
Major  Waring. 

"  She's  the  dearest  lady  in  the  world,"  Robert  repeated. 
He  checked  his  enthusiasm.  "Lord  in  heaven  1  what  aa 
evening  I  shall  have." 


252  EHODA  FLEMING. 

Tho  tlionglit  of  liis  approacliing  interview  witli  Dahlia 
kept  him  dumb. 

As  they  •were  parting  in  the  street,  ^Major  "Waring  said, 
"  I  will  be  here  at  twelve.  Let  me  tell  you  this,  liobert: 
she  is  going  to  be  married;  say  nothing  to  dissuade  her; 
it's  the  best  she  can  do ;  take  a  manly  view  of  it.  Good- 
bye." 

llohert  was  but  slightly  affected  by  the  intelligence.  His 
thoughts  were  on  Dahlia  as  he  had  first  seen  her,  when  in 
her  bh:)om,  and  the  sister  of  his  darling;  now  raiseraltle; 
a  thing  trampled  to  eai-th  !  With  liim,  pity  for  a  victim 
soon  became  lost  in  rage  at  the  author  of  tho  "wi-ong,  and  a.s 
he  walked  along  he  reflected  contemptuously  on  his  feeble 
efforts  to  avenge  her  at  AVarbeach.  Slie  lived  in  a  poor  row 
of  cottages,  striking  oif  fi-om  one  of  the  main  South-western 
suburb  I'oads,  not  very  distant  from  his  own  lodgings,  at 
which  ho  marvelled,  as  at  a  cruel  irony.  He  could  not 
discern  the  numbers^  and  had  to  turn  up  several  of  the 
dusky  little  strips  of  garden  to  read  the  numbers  on  the 
doors.  A  faint  smell  of  lilac  recalled  the  country  and  old 
days,  and  some  chui-ch  bells  began  ringing.  The  number  of 
the  house  where  he  was  to  find  Dahlia  was  seven.  He  waa 
at  the  door  of  the  house  next  to  it,  when  he  heard  voices  in 
the  garden  beside  him. 

A  man  said,  "  Then  I  have  your  answer  ?" 

A  woman  said,  "  Yes  ;  yes." 

"You  will  not  trust  to  my  pledged  honour?" 

"  Pardon  me  ;  not  that.     I  will  not  live  in  disgrace." 

"  When  I  promise,  on  my  soul,  that  the  moment  I  am  free 
I  will  set  you  riglit  before  the  world  :*" 

"  Oh  !  pardon  me." 

••  You  will  ?" 

"No  ;  no  !     I  cannot." 

"  You  choose  to  give  yourself  to  an  ohscTire  dog,  who'll 
ill-treat  you,  and  for  wluim  you  don't  care  a  pin's-head  ;  aTul 
why  ?  that  you  may  be  fenced  from  gossip,  and  nothing 
more.  I  thought  you  were  a  woman  above  that  kind  of 
meanness.  And  this  is  a  common  countryman.  How  will 
you  endure  that  kind  of  life  ?  You  were  made  for  elegance 
and  happiness  :  you  shall  have  it.  I  met  you  before  your 
illness,  when  you  would  not  listen  to  me:  I  met  you  after, 
I  knew  you  at  once.     Am  I  changed  ?     1  swear  to  you  I 


THE  EXPIATION.  253 

have  dreamed  of  you  ever  since,  and  love  yon.  Be  as  faded 
as  you  like ;  be  hideous,  if  you  like ;  but  come  with  me. 
You  know  my  name,  and  what  I  am.  Twice  I  have  fol- 
lowed you,  and  found  your  name  and  address ;  twice  1  have 
■\\T.'itten  to  you,  and  made  the  same  pi-oposition.  And  you 
won't  trust  to  my  honour  ?  When  I  tell  you  I  love  you 
tenderly  ?  When  I  give  you  my  solemn  assurance  that  you 
shall  not  regret  it  ?  You  have  been  deceived  by  one  man : 
why  punish  me  ?  I  know — I  feel  you  are  innocent  and  good. 
This  is  the  third  time  that  you  have  permitted  me  to  speak 
to  you :  let  it  be  final.  Say  you  will  trust  yourself  to  me — • 
trust  in  my  honour.  Say  it  shall  be  to-moiTow,  Yes  ;  say 
the  word.     To-morrow.     My  sweet  creature — do  !" 

The  man  spoke  earnestly,  but  a  third  person  and  extra- 
neous hearer  could  hardly  avoid  being  struck  by  the  bathetic 
conclusion.  At  least,  in  tone  it  bordered  on  a  fall ;  but  the 
woman  did  not  feel  it  so. 

She  replied,  "  You  mean  kindly  to  me,  sir.  I  thank  you 
indeed,  for  I  am  very  friendless.  Oh !  pardon  me :  I  am 
quite — quite  determined.     Go — pray,  forget  me," 

This  was  Dahlia's  voice. 

Robert  was  unconscious  of  having  previously  suspected  it. 
Heartily  ashamed  of  letting  his  ears  be  filled  with  secret 
talk,  he  went  from  the  garden  and  crossed  the  street. 

He  knew  this  to  be  one  of  the  temptations  of  young  women 
in  London. 

Shortly  after,  the  man  came  through  the  iron  gateway  of 
the  garden.  He  passed  under  lamplight,  and  Robert  per- 
ceived  him  to  be  a  gentleman  in  garb. 

A  light  appeared  in  the  windows  of  the  house.  IS'ow  that 
he  had  heard  her  voice,  the  terrors  of  his  interview  were 
dispersed,  and  he  had  only  plain  sadness  to  encounter.  He 
knocked  at  the  door  quietly.  There  was  a  long  delay  after 
he  had  sent  in  his  name  ;  but  finally  admission  was  given. 

"  If  I  had  loved  her  !"  groaned  Robert,  before  he  looked 
on  her ;  but  when  he  did  look  on  her,  affectionate  pity 
washed  the  selfish  man  out  of  him.  All  these  false  sensa- 
tions, peculiar  to  men,  concerning  the  soiled  purity  of  woma'.i, 
the  lost  innocence,  the  brand  of  shame  upon  her,  which  are 
commonly  the  foul  sentimentalism  of  such  as  can  be  too 
(>ager  in  the  chase  of  corruption  when  occasion  suits,  and 
*,re  another  side  of  pruriency,  not  absolutely  foreign  to  the 


254  EOODA  PI.EMINa. 

best  of  us  in  onr  youth — all  passed  away  from  him  in 
Dalilia's  presonco. 

The  youiiof  man  who  can  look  on  them  we  call  fallen 
women  witli  a  n()l)le  eye,  is  to  my  mind  he  that  is  most 
nohly  beg'otten  of  the  race,  and  likeliest  to  be  the  sire  of  a 
n()l)le  line.  Rohort  was  less  than  he;  but  Dalilia's  aspect 
heli)ed  liim  to  his  riyhtful  maTiliness.  He  saw  that  her 
worth  survived. 

The  creature's  soul  had  put  no  gloss  upon  her  sin.  She 
had  sinned,  and  her  sull'uring  was  manifest. 

She  had  chosen  to  stand  up  and  take  the  scourge  of  God ; 
after  which  the  stones  cast  by  men  are  not  painful. 

By  this  I  mean  that  she  had  voluntarily  stripped  her 
spirit  bare  of  evasion,  and  seen  herself  for  what  she  was  ; 
pleading  no  excuse.  His  scourge  is  the  Truth,  and  she  had 
faced  it. 

Innumerable  fanciful  thoughts,  few  of  them  definite,  beset 
the  mind  at  interviews  such  as  these;  but  Robert  was  dis- 
tinctly impressed  by  her  look.  It  was  as  that  of  one  upon 
the  yonder  shore.  Though  they  stood  close  together,  he  had 
the  thought  of  their  being  separate — a  gulf  between. 

The  colourlessness  of  her  features  helped  to  it,  and  the  odd 
little  close-fitting  white  linen  cap  which  she  wore  to  conceal 
the  stubborn-twisting  clipped  curls  of  her  shorn  liend,  made 
her  unlike  women  of  our  world.  She  was  dressed  in  black 
up  to  the  throat.  Her  eyes  were  still  luminously  blue,  and 
she  let  them  dwell  on  Robert  one  gentle  instant,  giving  him 
her  hand  humbly. 

"  Dahlia  ! — my  dear  sister,  I  wish  I  could  say ;  but  the 
luck's  against  me,"  Robert  began. 

She  sat,  with  her  fingers  locked  together  in  her  lap,  gazing 
forward  on  the  floor,  her  head  a  little  sideways  bent. 

"  I  believe,"  he  went  on — "  I  haven't  heard,  but  I  believe 
Rhoda  is  well." 

"  She  and  father  are  well,  I  know,"  said  Dahlia, 

Robert  stai'tod  :  "  Are  you  in  communication  with  them  ?** 

She  shook  her  head.  "  At  the  end  of  some  days  I  shall 
Bee  them." 

"  And  then  perhaps  you'll  plead  my  cause,  and  make  me 
thankful  to  you  for  life,  Dahlia  ?" 

"  Rhoda  does  not  love  you." 

**  That's  the  fact,  if  a  young  woman's  tp  be  trusted  to 


THE  EXPIATION.  255 

know  her  own  mind,  in  the  first  place,  and  to  speak  it,  in  the 
second." 

Dahh'a  closed  her  lips.  The  long-lined  nnderlip  was  no 
more  very  red.  Her  heart  knew  that  it  was  not  to  speak  of 
himself  that  he  had  come ;  but  she  was  poor-witted,  through 
weakness  of  her  blood,  and  out  of  her  own  immediate  line  of 
thought  could  think  neither  far  nor  deep.  He  entertained 
her  with  talk  of  his  notions  of  Rhoda,  finishing : 

"  But  at  the  end  of  a  week  you  will  see  her,  and  I  daresay 
she'll  give  you  her  notions  of  me.  Dahlia  !  how  happy  this 
'11  make  them.  I  do  say — thank  God  !  from  my  soul,  for  this." 

She  pressed  her  hands  in  her  lap,  trembling.  "If  you 
will,  please,  not  speak  of  it,  Mr.  Robert." 

"  Say  only  you  do  mean  it.  Dahlia.  Yoi^  mean  to  let  them 
see  you  ?" 

She  shivered  out  a  "  Yes."  • 

"  That's  rio-ht.  Because,  a  father  and  a  sister — haven't 
they  a  claim  ?  Think  awhile.  They've  had  a  terrible  time. 
And  it's  true  that  you've  consented  to  a  husband.  Dahlia  ? 
I'm  glad,  if  it  is ;  and  he's  good  and  kind.  Right  soul-glad 
I  am." 

While  he  was  speaking,  her  eyelids  lifted  and  her  eyes 
became  fixed  on  him  in  a  stony  light  of  terror,  like  a  crea- 
ture in  anguish  before  her  executioner.  Then  again  her 
eyelids  dropped.  She  had  not  moved  from  her  still 
posture. 

*'  You  love  him  ?"  he  asked,  in  some  wonderment. 

She  gave  no  answer. 

"  Don't  you  care  for  him  ?" 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  Because,  Dahlia,  if  you  do  not 1  know  I  have  no 

right  to  fancy  you  do  not.  How  is  it  ?  Tell  me.  Marriage 
is  an  awful  thing,  where  there's  no  love.     And   this  man, 

■whoever  he  is is  he  in  good  circumstances  ?     I  wouldn't 

speak  of  him ;  but,  you  see,  I  must,  as  your  friend — and  I'm 
that.  Come  :  he  loves  you  ?  Of  course  he  does.  He  has  said 
so.  I  believe  it.  And  he's  a  man  you  can  honour  and  esteem  ? 
You  wouldn't  consent  without,  I'm  sure.  What  makes  me 
anxious — I  look  on  you  as  my  sister,  whether  Rhoda  will 

have  it   so   or  not ;  I'm  anxious  because I'm  anxious  it 

should  be  over,  for  then  Rhoda  will  be  proud  of  the  faith 
she  had  in  you,  and  it  will  lighten  the  old  man's  heart." 


256  RnODA-  FLEMINO. 

Once  more  the  inexplicable  frozen  look  struck  over  him 
from  her  opened  eyes,  as  if  one  of  the  minutes  of  Time  had 
yawned  to  sliow  him  its  deep,  mute,  tragic  abyss,  and  was 
extini^uislied. 

*'  AVhen  does  it  take  ])lace.  Dahlia  ?" 

Iler  long  nnderlip,  white  almost  as  the  row  of  teeth  it 
revealed,  hung  loose. 

"  When  ?"  he  asked,  leaning  forward  to  hear,  and  the  word 
was  "  Saturday,"  uttered  with  a  feeble  harshness,  not  like 
the  gentle  voiee  of  Dahlia. 

"  Tliis  coming  Saturday  ?" 

"  No." 

*'  Saturday  week  ?" 

She  fell  into  a  visible  trembling. 

*'  You  named  the  day  r"' 

He  pushed  for  an  indication  of  cheerful  consent  to  the  act 
she  was  about  to  commit,  or  of  reluctance. 

Possibly  she  saw  this,  for  now  she  answered,  "  I  did." 
The  sound  was  deep  in  her  throat. 

"  Saturday  week,"  said  Robei-t.  "  I  feel  to  the  man  as  a 
brother,  already.     Do  you  live — you'll  live  in  the  country  r" 

"  Abroad." 

"  Not  in  Old  England  ?  I'm  sorry  for  that.  But— well ! 
Things  must  be  as  they're  ordered,  lleigho !  i'te  got  to 
leai-n  it." 

Dalilia  smiled  kindly. 

"  Khoda  will  love  you.     She  is  firm  when  she  loves." 

*•  When  she  loves.     Where's  the  consolation  to  me  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  she  loves  me  as  much — as  much " 

"  As  much  as  ever  ?  She  loves  her  sister  with  all  her 
heart — all,  for  I  haven't  a  bit  of  it." 

"  It  is  because,"  said  Dahlia  slowly,  "  it  is  because  she 
thinks  I  am " 

Here  the  poor  creature's  bosom  heaved  piteously. 

"  What  has  she  said  of  me  ?  1  wish  her  to  have  blamed 
me — it  is  less  pain." 

"  Listen,"  said  Robert.  "  She  does  not,  and  couldn't  blame 
you,  for  it's  a  sort  of  religion  with  her  to  believe  no  wrong  of 
you.  And  the  reason  why  she  hates  me  is,  that  I,  knowing 
something  more  of  the  world,  suspected,  and  chose  to  let  her 
know  it — I  said  it,  in  fact — that  you  had  been  deceived  by  a 
But  this  isn't  the  time  to  abuse  othei'S.    She  would  have 


THE  EXPIATION.  257 

had  me,  if  I  had  thought  proper  to  think  as  she  thitks,  op 
play  hypocrite,  and  pretend  to.  I'll  tell  you  openly,  Dahlia; 
your  father  thinks  the  worst.  Ah  !  you  look  the  ghost  again. 
It's  hard  for  you  to  hear,  but  you  give  me  a  notion  of  having 
got  strength  to  hear  it.  It's  your  father's  way  to  think  the 
worst.  Now,  when  you  can  show  him  your  husband,  my 
dear,  he'll  lift  his  head.  He's  old  English.  He  won't  dream 
of  asking  questions.  He'll  see  a  brave  and  honest  young 
man  who  must  love  you,  or — he  does  love  you,  that's  settled. 
Your  father'll  shake  his  hand,  and  as  for  llhoda,  she'll 
triumph.  The  only  person  to  speak  out  to,  is  the  man  who 
marries  you,  aiid  that  you've  done." 

Hobert  looked  the  interrogation  he  did  not  utter- 

"  I  have,"  said  Dahlia. 

"  Good  :  if  I  may  call  him  brother,  some  day,  all  the 
better  for  me.  Now,  you  won't  leave  England  the  day  you're 
married." 

"  Soon.     I  pray  that  it  may  be  soon." 

"  Yes ;  well,  on  that  morning,  I'll  have  your  father  and 
Rhoda  at  my  lodgi7igs,  not  wide  from  here  :  if  I'd  only  known 
it  earlier ! — and  you  and  your  husband  shall  come  there  and 
join  us.     It'll  be  a  happy  meeting  at  last." 

Dahlia  stopped  her  breathing. 

"  Will  you-  see  Rhoda  ?" 

"  I'll  go  to  her  to-morrow,  if  you  like." 

"  If  I  might  see  her,  just  as  I  am  leaving  England !  not 
before." 

"  That's  not  generous,"  said  Robert. 

"  Isn't  it  ?"  she  asked  like  a  child. 

"  Fancy ! — to  see  you  she's  been  longing  for,  and  the  ship 
that  takes  you  off,  perhaps  everlastingly,  as  far  as  this 
world's  concerned  !" 

"  Mr.  Robert,  I  do  not  wish  to  deceive  my  sister.  Father 
need  not  be  distressed.  Rhoda  shall  know.  I  will  not  be 
guilty  of  falsehoods  any  more^ — no  more !  Will  j^ou  go  to 
her?  Tell  her — tell  Rhoda  what  I  am.  Say  I  have  been 
ill.     It  will  save  her  from  a  great  shock." 

She  covered  her  eyes. 

"  I  said  in  all  my  letters  that  my  husband  was  a  gentle- 
man." 

It  was  her  first  openly  penitential  utterance  in  his  pre- 
sence, and  her  cheeks  were  faintly  reddened.     It  may  have 

s 


258  RnODA  FLEMING.  , 

been  this  motion  of  her  blood  which  aroused  the  sunken 
huuuinity  witliiii  her;  lier  heart  leaped,  and  she  cried: 

"  I  can  see  her  as  I  am,  I  can.  I  thought  it  impossible. 
Oh!  I  can.  Will  she  come  to  nie  ?  My  sister  is  a  Christian 
and  forfjives.  Oh  !  let  me  see  her.  And  go  to  her,  dear 
Mr.  Robert,  and  ask  her — tell  her  all,  and  ask  her  if  I  maj 
be  spared,  and  may  work  at  something — anything,  for  my 
livelihood  near  my  sister.  It  is  dilKcult  for  women  to  earn 
money,  but  I  think  I  can.  I  have  done  so  since  my  illness. 
I  have  been  in  the  hospital  with  brain  fever.  He  was  lodg- 
ing in  the  house  with  me  before.  He  found  me  at  the  hos- 
pital. When  I  came  out,  he  walked  with  me  to  support  me: 
I  was  very  weak.  He  read  to  me,  and  then  asked  me  to 
marry  him.  He  asked  again.  I  laj^  in  bed  one  night,  and 
with  my  eyes  open,  I  saw  the  dangers  of  women,  and  the 
trouble  of  my  father  and  sister;  and  pits  of  wickedness.  I 
saw  like  places  full  of  snakes.  I  had  such  a  yearning  for 
protection.  I  gave  him  my  word  I  would  be  his  wife,  if  he 
was  not  ashamed  of  a  wife  like  me.  I  wished  to  look  once 
in  father's  face.  I  had  fancied  that  Rhoda  would  spurn  me, 
when  she  discovered  my  falsehood.  She — sweet  dear!  would 
she  ever?  Go  to  her.  Say,  I  do  not  love  any  man.  I  am 
heart-dead.  I  have  no  heart  except  for  her.  I  cannot  love 
a  husband.  He  is  good,  and  it  is  kind:  but,  oh  !  let  me  be 
spared.     His  face  ! — " 

She  pressed  her  hands  tight  into  the  hollow  of  her  eyes. 

"  No  ;  it  can't  be  meant.  Am  [  very  ungrateful  ?  This 
does  not  seem  to  be  what  God  orders.  Only  if  this  must  be ! 
only  if  it  must  be  !  If  my  sister  cannot  look  on  me  without! 
He  is  good,  and  it  is  unselfish  to  take  a  moneyless,  disgraced 
creature:  but,  my  miseiy  ! — If  my  sister  will  see  me,  without 
my  doing  this ! — Go  to  her,  Mr.  Robei-t.  Say,  Dahlia  was  false, 
and  repents,  and  has  worked  with  her  needle  to  subsist,  and 
can,  and  Avill,  for  her  soul  strives  t )  be  clean.  Try  to  make 
her  understand'  If  Rhoda  could  love  you,  slie  would  know. 
She  is  locked  up — she  is  only  ideas.  My  sweet  is  so  proud. 
I  love  her  for  her  jiride,  if  she  will  only  let  me  creep  to  her 
feet,  kiss  her  feet.  D  ar  Mr.  Robert,  help  me !  help  me ! 
I  will  do  anything  she  says.  If  she  says  I  am  to  marry 
him,  I  will.  Don't  mind  my  teais  —they  mean  nothing  now. 
Tell  my  (  en-,  I  will  obey  her.  I  will  nut  be  false  any  more 
to   her.      1   wish   to    be  quite  stripped.      And  Rhoda  may 


THE  EXPIATION.  259 

know  mo,  and  forgive  me,  if  she  can.  And — Oh!  if  she 
thinks,  for  father's  sake,  I  ought,  I  will  submit  and  speak 
the  Avords;   I  will;   I  am  ready.      I  pi-ay  for  mercy." 

Robert  sat  with  his  fist  at  his  temples,  in  a  frowning 
meditation. 

Had  she  declared  her  reluctance  to  take  the  step,  in  the 
first  moments  of  their  interview,  he  might  have  been  ready 
to  support  her :  but  a  ])i-oject  fairly  launched  becomes  a 
reality  in  the  brain — a  thing  once  s])oken  of  attracts  like  a 
living  creature,  and  does  not  die  voluntarily.  Robert  now 
beheld  all  that  was  in  its  favour,  and  saw  nothing  but  flighty 
flimsy  objections  to  it.  He  was  hardly  moved  by  her  unex- 
pected outburst. 

Besides,  there  was  his  own  position  in  the  case.  Rhoda 
would  smile  on  him,  if  he  brought  Dahlia  to  her,  and  brought 
her  happy  in  the  world's  eye.  It  will  act  as  a  sort  of  signal 
for  general  happiness.  But  if  he  had  to  go  and  explain 
matters  base  and  mournful  to  her,  there  would  be  no  smile 
on  her  face,  and  not  much  gi\T.titude  in  her  breast.  There 
Avould  be  none  for  a  time,  certainly.  Proximity  to  her  faded 
sister  made  him  conceive  her  attainable,  and  thrice  precious 
b}'^  contrast. 

He  fixed  his  ga/e  on  Dahlia,  and  the  perfect  refinement  of 
her  simplicity  caused  him  to  think  that  she  might  be  aware 
of  an  inappropriateness  in  the  contemplated  union. 

"  Is  he  a  clumsy  fellow  ?  1  mean,  do  you  read  straight 
off  that  he  has  no  pretension  to  any  manners  of  a  gentlemaa 
—nothing  near  it  ?" 

To  this  question,  put  with  hesitation  by  Robert,  Dahlia 
made  answer,  "I  respect  him." 

She  would  not  strengthen  her  prayer  by  drawing  the 
man's  portrait.  Speedily  she  forgot  how  the  doing  so  would 
in  any  way  have  strengthened  her  prayer.  The  excitement 
had  left  her  brain  dull.  She  did  little  more  than  stare 
mildly,  and  absently  bend  her  head,  while  Robert  said  that 
he  Avould  go  to  Rhoda  on  the  morrow,  and  speak  seriously 
with  her. 

"  But  I  think  I  can  reckon  her  ideas  will  side  with  mine, 
that  it  is  to  your  interest,  my  dear,  to  make  your  feelings 
come  roand  warm  to  a  man  you  can  respect,  and  who  offers 
you  a  clear  path,"  he  said. 

Whereat  Dahlia  quietly  blinked  her  eyes. 

s2 


2G0  RIIODA  FLEIIINO. 

When  he  stood  np,  she  rose  likewise. 

"Am  I  to  iako  a  kiss  to  Klioda  ?"  he  said,  and  seeing  her 
answer,  bent  his  forehead,  to  which  she  put  her  lips. 

"And  now  I  must  tliink  all  nialit  Ioiilt  about  the  method 
of  transferring  it.  Good-bye,  Dahlia.  You  shall  hear  from 
your  sister  the  morning  after  to-morrow.     Good-bye  1" 

He  pressed  her  hand,  and  went  to  the  door. 

"  There's  nothing  I  can  do  for  you,  Dahlia  ?" 

"  Not  anything." 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  !" 

Robert  breathed  with  the  pleasant  sense  of  breathing, 
when  he  was  again  in  the  street.  Amazement,  that  wliat  he 
had  dreaded  so  much  should  be  so  easily  over,  set  him  think- 
ing, in  his  fashion,  on  the  marvels  of  life,  and  the  natural- 
ness in  the  aspect  of  all  earthly  things  when  you  look  at 
them  with  your  eyes. 

But  in  the  depths  of  his  heart  there  was  disquiet.  "  It's 
the  best  she  can  do ;  she  can  do  no  better,"  he  said  ;  and  said 
it  more  frequently  than  it  needed  by  a  mind  established  in 
the  conviction.  Gradually  he  began  to  feel  that  certain 
things  seen  with  the  eyes,  natural  as  they  may  then  appear 
and  little  terrible,  leave  distinct,  solid,  and  gi-ave  impres- 
sions. Something  of  what  our  human  tragedy  may  show 
before  high  heaven  possessed  him.  He  saw  it  bare  of  any 
sentiment,  in  the  person  of  the  girl  Dahlia.  He  could  neither 
put  a  halo  of  imagination  about  her,  nor  could  he  conceive 
one  degraded  thought  of  the  creature.  She  stood  a  naked 
Borrow,  haunting  his  brain. 

And  still  he  continued  saying,  "  It's  the  best  she  can  do: 
it's  best  for  all.     She  can  do  nothing  better." 

He  said  it,  unaware  that  he  said  it  in  self-defence. 

The  pale  nun-like  ghostly  face  hung  before  him,  stronger 
in  outline  the  farther  time  widened  between  him  and  that 
Buffering  fle^ih. 


TEE  MELTING  OP  THE  THOUSAND.  26i 

CHAPTER  XXXr. 

THE  MELTING  OF  THE  THOUSAND. 

The  tlionsand  pounds  were  in  Algernon's  hands  at  last. 
He  bad  made  his  escape  from  Boyne's  Bank  early  in  the 
afternoon,  that  he  might  obtain  the  cheque  and  feel  the 
money  in  his  pocket  before  that  day's  sun  was  extinguished. 
Tbere  was  a  note  for  five  hundred  ;  four  notes  for  a  hundred 
severally  ;  and  two  fifties.  And  all  had  come  to  him  through 
the  mere  writing  down  of  his  name  as  a  recipient  of  the 
sum ! 

It  was  enough  to  make  one  in  love  with  civilization. 
Money,  when  it  is  once  in  your  pocket,  seems  to  have  come 
there  easily,  even  if  you  have  worked  for  it ;  but  if  you  have 
done  no  labour  whatever,  and  still  find  it  there,  your  sensa- 
tions (supposing  you  to  be  a  butterfly  youth — the  typical 
child  of  a  wealthy  country  J  exult  marvellously,  and  soar 
above  the  conditions  of  earth. 

He  knew  the  very  features  of  the  notes.  That  gallant  old 
Five  Hundred,  who  might  have  been  a  Thousand,  but  that  he 
had  nobl}^  split  himself  into  centurions  and  skii^mishers,  stood 
in  his  imaginative  contemplation  like  a  grand  white-headed 
warrior,  clean  from  the  slaughter  and  in  court-ruffles — say, 
Blucher  at  the  court  of  the  Waterloo  Regent.  The  Hundred<» 
were  his  Generals  :  the  Fifties  his  captains  ;  and  eacli  one  was 
possessed  of  unlimited  power  of  splitting  himself  into  service- 
able regiments,  at  the  call  of  his  lord,  Algernon. 

He  scarcely  liked  to  make  the  secret  confession  that  it  was 
the  largest  sum  he  had  ever  as  yet  carried  about ;  but,  as  it 
heightened  his  pleasure,  he  did  confess  it  for  half  an  instant. 
Five  Hundred  in  the  bulk  he  had  never  attained  to.  He  felt 
it  as  a  fortification  against  every  mishap  in  life. 

To  a  young  man  commonly  in  dilficulties  with  regard  to  the 
paying  of  his  cabman,  and  latterly  the  getting  of  his  dinner, 
the  sense  of  elevation  imparted  by  the  sum  was  intoxicating. 
But,  thinking  too  much  of  the  Five  Hundred  waxed  danger- 
ous for  the  fifties  ;  it  dwarfed  them  to  such  insignificance 
that  it  made  them  lose  their  self-respect.  So,  Algernon, 
pursuing  excellent  tactics,   set   his  mind   upon  some  stray 


262  BnODA  FLEMING. 

shillinfjs  that  he  hnd — a  remainder  of  five  pounrls  boiTOwcd 
from  old  Anthony,  when  he  endeavoured  to  obtain  repayment 
of  the  one  pound  and  interest  dating  from  the  night  at  the 
theatre.  Algernon  had  stopped  his  mouth  on  that  point,  as 
■well  as  concerning  his  acquaintance  with  Dahlia,  by  imme- 
diately attempting  to  boriow  further,  whenever  Anthony  led 
the  way  for  a  word  in  piivate.  A  one-pound  creditor  had  no 
particular  terrors  for  him,  and  he  manoeuvred  the  old  man 
neatly,  saying,  as  previously,  "Really,  I  don't  know  the 
young  ]ierson  you  allude  to  :  I  happened  to  meet  her,  or  some 
one  like  her,  casually,"  and  dropping  his  voice,  "  I'm  rather 
short — what  do  you  think  ?  Could  you  ? — a  trifling  accom- 
modation ?"  from  which  Anthony  fled. 

But  on  the  day  closing  the  Epsom  week  he  beckoned 
Anthony  secretly  to  follow  him  out  of  the  oflSce,  and  volun- 
teered to  give  news  that  he  had  just  heard  of  Dahlia. 

"  Oh,"  said  Anthony,  "  I've  seen  her." 

"I  haven't,"  said  Algernon,  "upon  my  honour." 

"  Yes,  I've  seen  her,  sir,  and  soriy  to  hear  her  husband's 
fallen  a  bit  low."  Anthony  touched  his  pocket.  "  What 
they  calls  'nip  '  tides,  ain't  it  ?" 

Anthony  sprung  a  compliment  tinder  him,  which  sent  the 
vain  old  fellow  up,  whether  he  would  or  not,  to  the"  effect  that 
Anthony's  tides  were  not  subject  to  lunar  influence. 

"Now,  i\Ir.  Blancove,  you  must  change  them  notions  o' 
me.  I  don't  say  I  shouldn'tbe  richer  if  I'd  got  what's  owing 
to  me." 

"You'd  have  to  be  protected;  you'd  be  Bullion  on  two 
legs,"  said  Anthony,  always  shrewd  in  detecting  a  weakness. 
"You'd  have  to  go  about  with  sentries  on  each  side,  and 
sleep  in  an  ii-on  safe  !" 

The  end  of  the  interview  was  a  visit  to  the  public-house, 
and  the  transferring  of  another  legal  instrument  from 
Algernon  to  Anthony.  The  latter  departed  moaning  over  his 
five  pounds  ten  shillings  in  paper;  the  former  rejoicing  at 
his  five  pounds  in  gold.  That  day  was  Saturday.  On 
Monday,  only  a  few  shillings  of  the  five  pounds  remained ; 
but  they  were  sufficient  to  command  a  cab,  and,  if  modesty  in 
dining  was  among  the  presci-iptions  for  the  day,  a  dinner. 
Algei-non  was  driven  to  the  West. 

He  remembered  when  he  had  plunged  in  iho.  midst  of  the 
fashionable  whirlpool,   having  felt  reckless  there  formerly, 


THE  MELTING  OP  THE  THOUSAND.  203 

but  he  had  "become  remarkably  sedate  when  he  stepped  along 
the  walks.  A  certain  equipag-e,  or  horse,  was  to  his  taste, 
and,  once  he  would  have  said  :  "  That's  the  thing  for  me ;" 
being  penniless.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  he  reckoned  tho 
possible  cost,  grudgingly,  saying  "  Eh  ?"  to  himself,  and 
responding,  "  No,"  faintly,  and  then  more  positively, 
"Won't  do." 

He  was  by  no  means  acting  as  one  on  a  footing  of  equality 
with  the  people  he  beholds.  A  man  who  is  ready  to  wager 
a  thousand  pounds  that  no  other  man  present  has  that  amount 
in  his  pocket,  can  hardly  feel  unequal  to  his  company. 

Charming  ladies  on  horseback  cantered  past.  "  Let  them 
go,"  he  thought.  Yesterday,  the  sight  of  one  would  have  set 
him  dreaming  on  grand  alliances.  When  you  can  afford  to  be 
a  bachelor,  the  case  is  otherwise.  Presently,  who  should  rirlH 
by  but  Mrs.  Lovell !  She  was  talking  more  earnestly  than 
was  becoming,  to  that  easy-mannered  dark-eyed  fellow  ;  the 
man  who  had  made  him  savage  by  entering  the  opera-box. 

"  Poor  old  Ned  !"  said  Algernon;  "  I  must  put  him  on  his 
guard."  But,  even  the  lifting  of  a  finger — a  hint  on  paper — 
would  bring  Edward  over  from  Paris,  as  he  knew  ;  and  that 
was  not  in  his  scheme;  so  he  only  determined  to  write  to  his 
cousin. 

A  flood  of  evening  gold  lay  over  the  Western  park. 

"  The  glory  of  this  place,"  Algernon  said  to  himself,  "is, 
that  you're  sure  of  meeting  none  but  gentlemen  here ;"  and 
he  contrasted  it  with  Epsom  Downs. 

A  superstitious  horror  seized  him  when,  casting  his  eyes 
ahead,  he  perceived  Sedgett  among  the  tasteful  groups — as 
discordant  a  figure  as  could  well  be  seen,  and  ckimsily  aware 
of  it,  for  he  could  neither  step  nor  look  like  a  man  at  ease. 
Algernon  swiing  round  and  retraced  his  way  ;  but  Sedgett 
had  long  sight. 

"  I'd  heard  of  London " — Algernon  soon  had  the  hated 
voice  in  his  ears,  "  and  I've  bin  up  to  London  b'fore  ;  I  came 
here  to  have  a  wink  at  the  fash'nables — hang  me,  if  ever  I 
see  such  a  scrumptious  lot.  It's  worth  a  walk  up  and  down 
for  a  hour  or  more.     D'you  come  heer  often,  sir  ?" 

"  Eh  ?  Who  are  you  ?  Oh  !"  said  Algernon,  half  mad 
with  rage.     "  Excuse  me  ;"  and  he  walked  faster. 

"  Fifty  times  over,"  Sedgett  responded  cheerfully.  "  I'd 
pace  you  for  a  match  up  and  down  this  place  if  you  liked. 


2f)4  UnODA  FLEMING. 

Ain't  the  horses  a  spectacle  H  I'd  ratlier  he  hoer  than  therf> 
at  they  Kaces.  As  for  the  ladies,  I'll  tell  you  what:  ladiea 
or  no  ladies,  q'ive  my  yount^  woman  time  for  her  hair  to  g-i:ow, 
and  her  colour  to  come,  by  Georg^e  !  if  she  wouldn't  shine 
against  e'er  a  one — smite  me  stone  blind,  if  she  wouldn't ! 
So  she  shall  !  Australia  '11  see.  1  owe  you  my  thanks  for 
interdoocin'  me,  and  never  fear  my  not  remembering'." 

Where  there  was  a  crowd,  Algernon  could  elude  his 
persecutor  by  threading  his  way  rapidly ;  but  the  open 
spaces  condemned  him  to  merciless  exposure,  and  he  flew 
before  eyes  that  his  imagination  exaggei-ated  to  a  stretch  of 
supernatural  astonishment.  The  tips  of  his  fingers,  the 
roots  of  his  hair,  pricked  with  vexation,  and  still,  manoouvro 
as  he  might,  Sedgett  followed  him. 

"  Call  at  my  chambers,"  he  said  sternly. 

"You're  never  at  home,  sir." 

*'  Call  to-morrow  morning,  at  ten." 

"And  see  a  great  big  black  door,  and  kick  at  it  till  my 
toe  comes  through  my  boot.     Thank  ye." 

"I  tell  you,  I  won't  have  you  annoying  me  in  public; 
once  for  all." 

"Why,  sir;  I  thought  we  parted  friends,  last  time. 
Didn't  you  shake  my  hand,  now,  didn't  you  .shake  my  hand, 
sir  ?  1  ask  you,  whether  you  shook  my  hand,  or  whether 
you  didn't  ?  A  plain  answer.  We  had  a  bit  of  a  scrim- 
mage, coming  home.  I  admit  we  had  ;  but  shaking  hands, 
means  'friends  again  we  are.'  1  know  you're  a  gentleman, 
and  a  man  like  me  shouldn't  be  so  bold  as  fur  to  strike  his 
betters.  Only,  don't  you  see  sir,  Full-o'-Beer  's  a  hasty 
chap,  and  up  in  a  minute  ;  and  he's  sorry  for  it  after." 

Algernon  conceived  a  brilliant  notion.  Drawing  five 
Bhillings  from  his  pocket,  he  held  them  over  to  Sedgett,  and 
told  him  to  drive  down  to  his  chambers,  and  await  his 
coming.  Sedgett  took  the  money;  but  it  was  five  shillings 
lost.  He  made  no  exhibition  of  receiving  orders,  and  it  was 
impossible  to  address  him  imperiously  without  provoking 
observations  of  an  animated  kind  from  the  elegant  groups, 
parading  and  sitting. 

Young  Harry  Latters  caught  Algernon's  eye  ;  never  was 
youth  more  joyfully  greeted.  Harry  spoke  of  the  Friday's 
race,  and  the  defection  of  the  horse   "  Tenpenny  Kail."     A 


THE  MELTING  OF  THE  THOUSAND.  265 

man  passed  with  a  nod  and  "  How  d'ye  do  ?"  for  which  he 
received  in  reply  a  cool  stare. 

"  Who's  that  ?"  Al2:ernon  asked. 

"  The  son  of  a  high  dignitary,"  said  Harry. 

"  You  cut  him." 

"  I  can  do  the  thing,  you  see,  when  it's  a  public  duty." 

"What's  the  matter  with  him  ?" 

"  Merely  a  black-leg,  a  grec,  a  cheat,  swindler,  or  whatever 
name  you  like,"  said  Harry.  "  We  none  of  us  nod  to  the 
professionals  in  this  line  ;  and  1  won't  exchange  salutes  with 
an  amateur.  I'm  peculiar.  He  chose  to  be  absent  on  the 
rigid  day  last  year  ;  so  from  that  date,  I  consider  him  absent 
in  toto  ;  '  none  of  your  rrrrr — m  reckonings,  let's  have  the 
rrrrr — m  toto ;' — you  remember  Suckling's  story  of  the 
Yankee  fellow  ?  Bye-bye ;  shall  see  you  the  day  after  to- 
morrow.    You  dine  with  me  and  Suckling  at  the  club." 

Latters  was  hailed  by  other  friends.  Algernon  was  forced 
to  let  him  go.  He  dipped  under  the  iron  rail,  and  crossed 
the  row  at  a  ruii ;  an  indecorous  proceeding ;  he  could  not 
help  it.  The  hope  was  that  Sedgett  would  not  have  the 
like  audacity,  or  might  be  stopped,  and  Algernon's  reward 
for  so  just  a  calculation  was,  that  on  looking  round,  he  found 
himself  free.  He  slipped  with  all  haste  out  of  the  Park. 
Sedgett's  presence  had  the  deadening  power  of  the  torpedo 
on  the  thousand  pounds. 

For  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour,  Algernon  had  not  felt 
a  motion  of  it.  A  cab,  to  make  his  escape  certain,  was 
suggested  to  his  mind ;  and  he  would  have  called  a  cab,  had 
not  the  novel  apparition  of  economy,  which  now  haunted 
him,  suggested  that  he  had  recently  tossed  five  shillings 
into  the  gutter.  A  man  might  dine  on  four  shillings  and 
sixpence,  enjoying  a  modest  half  pint  of  wine,  and  he  pos- 
sessed that  sum.  To  pinch  himself  and  deserve  well  of 
Providence,  he  resolved  not  to  drink  -vsdne,  but  beer,  that 
day.  He  named  the  beverage  ; — a  pint-bottle  of  ale  ;  and 
laughed,  as  a  royal  economist  may,  who  punishes  himself  to 
please  himself. 

"  Mighty  jolly,  ain't  it,  sir  ?"  said  Sedgett,  at  his  elbow. 

Algernon  faced  about,  and  swore  an  oath  from  his  boots 
upward ;  so  vehement  was  his  disgust,  and  all-pervading 
his  amazement. 


266  RHODA  FLEMING. 

"  I'll  wallop  you  at  that  game,"  said  Scdgett. 

"You  infernal  scoundrel!" 

"IF  you  begin  swearing,"  Sedgett  warned  him. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me  'f" 

"  I'll  tell  you,  sir.  I  don't  want  to  go  to  ne'er  a  cock- 
fight, nor  betting-hole." 

"  Hero,  come  up  this  street,"  said  Algernon,  leading  the 
way  into  a  dusky  defile  from  a  main  parade  of  fashion. 
"  Now,  what's  your  business,  confound  you  !" 

"Well,  sir,  I  aint  goin'  to  be  confounded:  that,  I'll — 
ril  swear  to.  The  long  and  the  short  is,  I  must  have  some 
money  'fore  the  week's  out." 

"  You  won't  have  a  penny  from  me." 

"  That's  blunt,  though  it  ain't  in  my  pocket,"  said  Sedgett, 
grinning.  "I  say,  sir,  respectful  as  you  like,  I  vinst.  I've 
got  to  pay  for  passengcrin'  over  the  sea,  self  and  wife; 
and  quick  it  must  be.  There's  things  to  buy  on  both 
sides.  A  small  advance  and  you  won't  be  bothered.  Say, 
fifty.  Fifty,  and  you  dont  see  me  till  Saturday,  when, 
accordin'  to  agreement,  you  hand  to  me  the  cash,  outside 
the  church  door  ;  and  then  we  parts  to  meet  no  more.  Oh  ! 
let  us  be  joyful — I'll  sing." 

Algernon's  loathing  of  the  coarseness  and  profanity  of 
villaiiy  increased  almost  to  the  depth  of  a  sentiment  as  he 
listened  to  Sedgett. 

"  I  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  he  said.  "  You  shall  not  have 
a  farthing.  Be  off.  If  you  follow  me,  I  give  you  into 
custody  of  a  policeman." 

"  You  durstn't."     Sedgett  eyed  him  warily. 

He  could  spy  a  physical  weakness,  by  atlinity  of  cowardice, 
as  quickly  as  Algernon  a  moral  weakness,  by  the  same  sort 
of  relationship  to  it. 

"  You  don't  dare,"  Sedgett  pursued.  "  And  why  should 
you,  sir?  there's  ne'er  a  reason  why.  I'm  civil.  I  asks  for 
my  own  :  no  more'n  my  own,  it  ain't.  I  call  the  bargain 
good  :  why  sh'd  I  want  fur  to  break  it  ?  I  want  the  money 
bad.  I'm  sick  o'  this  country.  I'd  like  to  be  olT  in  the  first 
ship  that  sails.  Can't  you  let  me  have  ten  till  to-moiTow  ? 
then  t'other  forty.  I've  got  a  mortal  need  for  it,  tliat'I  have. 
Come,  it's  no  use  your  walking  at  that  rate ;  my  legs  are  'a 
good  as  yours." 

Algernon  had  turned  back  to  the  great  thoroughfare.     He 


THE  MELTING  OE  THE  THOUSAND.  267 

was  afraid  tliat  ton  pounds  must  be  forfeited  to  this  worry- 
ino;'  demon  in  the  flesh,  and  sought  the  countenance  of  his 
■well-dressed  fellows  to  encourage  him  in  resisting.  He 
could  think  of  no  subterfuge ;  menace  was  clearly  useless : 
and  yet  the  idea  of  changing  one  of  the  notes,  and  for  so 
infamous  a  creature,  caused  pangs  that  helped  him  further  to 
endure  his  dogging  feet  and  filthy  tongue.  This  continued 
until  he  saw  a  woman's  hand  waving  from  a  cab.  Presuming 
that  such  a  signal,  objectionable  as  it  was,  must  be  addressed 
to  himself,  he  considered  whether  he  should  lift  his  hat,  or 
simply  smile  as  a  favoured,  but  not  too  deeply  flattered, 
man.  The  cab  drew^  up,  and  the  w^oman  said,  "  Sedgett." 
She  was  a  well-looking  woman,  strongly  coloured,  brown 
eyed,  and  hearty  in  appearance. 

"  What  a  brute  you  are,  Sedgett,  not  to  be  at  home  when 
you  brought  me  up  to  London  with  all  the  boxes  and  bed- 
ding— my  goodness  !  It's  a  Providence  I  caught  you  in  my 
eye,  or  I  should  have  been  driving  down  to  the  docks,  and 
seeing  about  the  ship.  You  are  a  brute.  Come  in,  at 
one*" 

"  If  you're  up  to  calling  names,  I've  got  one  or  two  for 
you,"  Sedgett  growled. 

Algernon  had  heard  enough.  Sure  that  he  had  left 
Sedgett  in  hands  not  likely  to  relinquish  him,  he  passed  on 
with  elastic  step.  Wine  was  greatly  des  red,  after  his  tor- 
ments. Where  was  credit  to  be  had  ?  True,  he  looked 
contemptuously  on  the  blooming  land  of  credit  now,  but  an 
entry  to  it  by  one  of  the  back  doors  would  have  been  con- 
venient, so  that  he  might  be  nourished  and  restored  by  a 
benevolent  dinner,  while  he  kept  his  Thousand  intact.  How- 
ever, he  dismissed  the  contemplation  of  credit  and  its  tran- 
sient charms.     "  I  won't  dine  at  all,"  he  said. 

A  beggar  woman  stretched  out  her  hand — he  dropped  a 
shilling  in  it. 

"  Hang  me,  if  I  shall  be  able  to,"  was  his  next  reflection ; 
and  with  the  remaining  three  and  sixpence,  he  crossed  the 
threshold  of  a  tobacconist's  shop  and  bought  cigars,  to  save 
himself  from  excesses  in  charity.  After  gravely  reproaching 
the  tobacconist  for  the  growing  costliness  of  cigars,  he  came 
into  the  air,  feeling  extraordinarily  empty.  Of  this  he  soon 
understood  the  cause,  and  it  amused  him.  Accustomed  to 
the  smell  of  tobacco  always  when  he  came  from  his  dinner, 


268  ?nODA  FLEMING. 

it  seemed,  as  the  fumes  of  the  shop  took  his  nostril,  that 
demands  were  being  made  within  him  by  an  inquisitive 
spirit,  .and  dissatisfaction  expressed  at  the  vacancy  there. 

"  What's  the  use  ?  I  caii't  dine,"  he  utteixd  argiimen- 
tatively.  "  I'm  not  going  to  change  a  note,  and  I  u-on't  dine. 
I've  no  Chib.  There's  not  a  fellow  I  can  see  who'll  ask  me 
to  dine.  I'll  lounge  along  home.  There  is  some  Sherry 
there." 

Hut  Algernon  bore  vividly  in  mind  that  he  did  not  approve 
of  that  Sherry. 

"  I've  lieai'd  of  fellows  frying  sausages  at  home,  and  living 
on  something  like  two  shillings  a  day,"  he  remarked  in 
meditation  ;  and  then  it  struck  him  that  Mrs.LovcH's  parcel 
of  j'cturncd  jewels  lay  in  one  of  his  diawers  at  home — that 
is,  if  the  laundress  had  left  the  parcel  untouched. 

In  an  agony  of  alarm,  he  called  a  cab,  and  drove  hotly  to 
the  Temple.  Finding  the  packet  safe,  he  put  a  couple  of 
rings  and  the  necklace  with  the  opal  in  his  waistcoat  })ocket. 
The  cabman  must  be  paid,  of  course ;  so  a  jewel  must  be 
pawned.  Which  shall  it  be? — dinmond  or  opal?  Change 
a  dozen  times  and  let  it  be  the  trinket  in  the  right  hand — 
the  opal ;  let  it  be  the  opal.  How  much  would  the  opal 
fetch  ?  The  pawnbroker  can  best  inform  us  upon  that 
point.  So  he  di-ove  to  tlie  2)awnbrokfir;  one  whom  he  knew. 
The  pawnbi-oker  offered  him  five-and-twenty  pounds  on  the 
security  of  the  opal. 

"  What  on  earth  is  it  that  people  think  disgraceful  in 
your  entering  a  pawnbroker's  shop  ?"  Algernon  asked  him- 
self when,  taking  his  ticket  and  the  five-and-twenty  pounds, 
he  repelled  the  stare  of  a  man  behind  a  neighbouring  par- 
tition. 

"  There  are  not  many  of  that  sort  in  the  kingdom,"  he 
said  to  the  pawnbroker,  who  was  loftily  fondling  the  unlucky 
opal. 

"  Well — h'm  •  perhaps  there's  not ;"  the  pawnbroker  was 
ready  to  admit  it,  now  that  the  aiTangement  had  been  set- 
tled. 

"  T  shan't  be  able  to  let  you  keep  it  long." 

"  As  quick  back  as  you  like,  su\" 

Algernon  noticed  as  he  turneil  away  that  the  man  behind 
the  partition,  Avho  had  more  the  look  of  a  dapper  young 
shopman  than  of  a  needy  petitioner  for  loans  or  securities, 


THE  MELTING  OP  THE  THOUSAND.  269 

Btretclied  over  the  counter  to  look  at  the  opal ;  and.  he  cer- 
tainly heard  his  name  pronounced.  It  enraged  him  ;  but 
policy  counselled  a  quiet  behaviour  in  this  place,  and  no 
quarrelling  with  his  pawnbroker.  Besides,  his  whole  nature 
cried  out  for  dinner.  He  dined  and  had  his  wine ;  as  good, 
he  ventured  to  assert,  as  any  man  could  get  for  the  money; 
for  he  knew  the  hotels  with  the  venerable  cellars. 

"  I  should  have  made  a  first-rate  courier  to  a  millionaire," 
he  said,  with  scornful  candoui%  but  without  abusing  the 
disposition  of  things  which  had  ordered  Tiis  being  a  gentle- 
man. Subsequently,  from  his  having  sat  so  long  over  his 
wine  wdthout  moving  a  leg,  he  indulged  in  the  belief  that  he 
had  reflected  profoundly  ;  out  of  which  depths  he  stai-ted, 
very  much  like  a  man  who  has  dozed,  and  felt  a  discomfort 
in  his  limbs  and  head. 

"  I  must  forget  myself,"  he  said.  Xor  was  any  grave 
mentor  by,  to  assure  him  that  his  tragic  state  was  the  issue 
of  an  evil  digestion  of  his  dinner  and  wine.  "  I  must  foi-get 
m.yself.  I'm  under  some  doom.  I  see  it  now.  Nobody 
cares  for  me.  I  don't  know  what  happiness  is.  I  was  born 
under  a  bad  star.  My  fate's  written."  Following  his  youth- 
ful wisdom,  this  wounded  hart  dragged  his  slow  limbs 
toward  the  halls  of  brandy  and  song. 

One  learns  to  have  compassion  for  fools,  by  studying 
them :  and  the  fool,  though  ^Nature  is  wise,  is  next  door  to 
Nature.  He  is  naked  in  his  simplicity  ;  he  can  tell  us  much, 
and  suggest  more.  My  excuse  for  dwelling  upon  him  is, 
that  he  holds  the  link  of  my  story.  Where  fools  are 
numerous,  one  of  them  must  be  prominent  now  and  then  in 
a  vei^acious  narration.  There  comes  an  hour  when  tlie  veil 
drops  on  him,  he  not  being  always  clean  to  the  discreeter 
touch. 

Algernon  was  late  at  the  Bank  next  day,  and  not  cheerful, 
though  he  received  his  customary  repiiinand  with  submis- 
sion. This  day  was  after  the  pattern  of  the  day  preceding, 
except  that  he  did  not  visit  the  Park ;  the  night  likewise. 

On  Wednesday  morning,  he  arose  with  the  conviction 
that  England  was  no  place  for  him  to  dwell  in.  What  if 
Rhoda  were  to  accompany  him  to  one  of  the  colonies  ?  The 
idea  had  been  gradually  taking  shape  in  his  mind  from  the 
moment  that  he  had  possessed  ih3  Thousand.  C  o  ild  she 
not   make   butter  and  cheeses   ca;)ita'ly,  while  he   rode  on 


270  EHODA  FLEMING. 

horsehack  throuerli  space  ?     She  was  a  strong  girl,  a  loyal 
girl,  and  woukl  be  a  grateful  wife. 

"  I'll  marry  her,"  he  said;  and  hesitated.  "Yes,  I'll  marry 
her."     lint  it  must  be  done  immccliately. 

He  resolved  to  run  down  to  ^Vre.\by,  rejoice  her  with  a 
declaration  of  love,  astound  her  with  a  proposition  of  mar- 
riage, bewilder  her  little  brain  with  hurrying  adjectives, 
whisk  her  np  to  London,  and  in  little  more  than  a  week  be 
sailing  on  tlie  high  seas,  new  born;  nothing  of  civilization 
about  him,  save  a  few  last  very  first-i-ate  cigars  which  he 
projected  to  smoke  on  the  poop  of  the  vessel,  and  so  dream 
of  the  world  he  loft  behind. 

He  went  down  to  the  Bank  in  better  spirits,  and  there 
wrote  off  a  straightforw^ai-d  demand  of  an  interview,  to 
Rhoda,  hinting  at  the  pvu'pose  of  it.  AVhile  at  his  work, 
he  thought  of  Harry  Latters  and  Lord  Suckling,  and  the 
folly  of  his  dining  with  men  in  his  present  position.  Settling- 
day,  it  or  yesterday  might  be,  but  a  colonist  is  not  supposed 
to  know^  anything  of  those  arrangements.  One  of  his  it'] low- 
clerks  reminded  him  of  a  loan  he  had  contracted,  and  showed 
him  his  name  written  under  obligatory  initials.  He  paid  it, 
ostentatiously  drawing  out  one  of  his  fifties.  Up  came 
another,  with  a  similar  strip  of  paper.  "  You  don't  want 
me  to  change  this,  do  you  ?"  said  Algernon  ;  and  heard  a 
tale  of  domestic  needs  and  a  grappling  landlady.  He  gi-oaned 
inwardly:  "Odd  that  I  mast  pay  for  his  landlady  being  a 
vixen!"  The  note  was  changed;  the  debt  liquidated.  On 
the  door-step,  as  he  was  going  to  lunch,  old  Anthony  waylaid 
him,  and  was  almost  noisily  persistent  in  demanding  his  one 
pound  three  and  his  five  pound  ten.  Algei-non  paid  the  sums, 
ready  to  believe  that  there  was  a  suspicion  abroad  of  his 
intention  to  become  a  colonist. 

He  employed  the  luncheon  hour  in  a  visit  to  a  colonial 
8hip{)ing  office,  and  nearly  ran  straight  upon  Sedgett  at  the 
office-door.  The  woman  who  had  hailed  him  from  the  cab, 
was  in  Sedgett's  company,  but  Sedgett  saw  no  one.  His 
head  hung  and  his  sullen  brows  were  drawn  moodily. 
Abi-einon  escaped  from  observation.  His  first  inipiiry  at 
the  office  was  as  to  the  business  of  the  preceding  cou])le, 
and  he  was  satisfied  by  hearing  that  Sedgett  wanted  bertha 
for  himself  and  wife. 


THE  MELTING  OP  THE  THOUSAND.  27  1 

"Who's  the  woman,  I  wonder!"  Algernon  thougut,  and 
forgot  her. 

He  obtained  some  particular  information,  and  returning 
to  the  Bank,  was  called  before  his  uncle,  who  curtly  reckoned 
up  his  mei-its  in  a  contemptuous  rebuke,  and  confirmed  him 
in  his  resolution  to  incui*  this  sort  of  thing  no  longer.  In 
consequence,  he  promised  Sir  William  that  he  would  amend 
his  ways,  and  these  were  the  first  hopeful  words  that  Sir 
William  had  ever  heard  from  him. 

Algernon's  design  was  to  dress,  that  evening,  in  the  uniform 
of  society,  so  that,  in  the  event  of  his  meeting-  Harry  Latters, 
he  might  assure  him  he  was  coming  to  his  Club,  and  had 
been  compelled  to  dine  elsewhere — with  his  uncle,  or  any- 
body. When  he  reached  the  door  of  his  chambers,  a  man 
was  standing  there,  who  said : 

"  Mr.  Algernon  Blancove  ?" 

"  Tes,"  Algernon  prolonged  an  affirmative,  to  diminish  the 
confidence  it  might  inspire,  if  possible. 

"  May  I  speak  with  you,  sir  ?" 

Algernon  told  him  to  follow  in.  The  man  was  tall  and 
large-featured,  with  an  immense  blank  expression  of  face. 

"  I've  come  from  Mr.  Samuels,  sir,"  he  said,  deferentially. 

Mr.  Samuels  was  Algernon's  chief  jeweller. 

"  Oh,"  Algernon  remarked.  "  Well,  I  don't  want  anything ; 
and  let  me  say,  I  don't  approve  of  this  touting  for  custom. 
I  thought  Mr.  Samuels  was  above  it." 

The  man  bowed.  "  My  business  is  not  that,  sir.  Ahem  ! 
I  dare  say  you  remember  an  opal  you  had  from  our  house. 
It  was  set  in  a  necklace." 

"  All  right ;  I  remember  it,  perfectly,"  said  Algernon  j 
cool,  but  not  of  the  collected  colour. 

"  The  cost  of  it  was  fifty-five  pounds,  sir." 

"  Was  it  ?     Well,  I've  forgotten." 

"  We  find  that  it  has  been  pawned  for  five-and-twenty." 

"  A  little  less  than  half,"  said  Algernon,  "  Pawnbrokers 
are  eimply  cheats." 

"They  mayn't  be  worse  than  others,"  the  man  observed. 

Algernon  was  exactly  in  the  position  where  righteous 
anger  is  the  proper  weapon,  if  not  the  sole  resource.  He 
flushed,  but  was  not  sure  of  his  opportunity  for  the  explosion. 
The  man  read  the  flush. 


272  RHODA  PLEMINO. 

"  May  I  ask  you,  did  you  pawn  it,  sir  ?  I'm  obliged  to 
ask  the  question." 

"  I  ? — I  renlly  don't — I  don't  choose  to  answer  impudent 
questions.     AVhiit  do  you  mean  by  coming  liere  't" 

"  I  may  as  well  be  open  with  you,  sir,  to  prevent  mis- 
understandings. One  ot"  the  young  men  was  present  Avhen 
you  jiawned  it.     He  saw  tlie  thing  done." 

"  Suppose  he  did  ?" 

"  He  would  be  a  witness." 

"  Against  me  ?  I've  dealt  with  Samuels  for  three — four 
yeaivs." 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  but  you  have  never  yet  paid  any  account ;  and 
I  believe  I  am  right  in  saying  that  this  opal  is  not  tlie  first 
thing  coming  from  our  house  that  has  been  pledged — I  can't 
Bay  you  did  it  on  the  other  occasions." 

"  You  had  better  not,"  rejoined  Algernon. 

He  broke  an  unpleasant  silence  by  asking,  "What  further?" 

"  My  master  has  sent  you  his  bill." 

Algei-non  glanced  at  the  prodigious  figui-es. 

"  Five  hun —  !"  he  gasped,  recoiling  ;  and  added,  "  Well, 
I  can't  pay  it  on  the  spot." 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  you're  liable  to  proceedings  you'd  better 
avoid,  sir,  for  the  sake  of  your  relations." 

"  You  dai-e  to  threaten  to  ex])Ose  me  to  my  relatives  ?" 
Algernon  said  haughtily,  and  immediately  perceived  that 
indignation  at  this  point  was  a  clever  stroke;  for  the  man, 
•while  dc])recating  the  idea  of  doing  so,  showed  his  more 
established  belief  in  the  possible  virtue  of  such  a  threat. 

"Not  at  all,  sir;  but  you  know  that  pledging  things  not 
paid  for  is  illegal,  and  subject  to  penalties.  No  tradesman 
likes  it ;  they  can't  al!ow  it.  I  may  as  well  let  you  know 
that  Mr.  Samuels " 

"  Tliere,  stop  !"  cried  Algernon,  laughing,  as  he  thouglit, 
heartily.  "Mr.  Samuels  is  a  very  tolerable  Jew;  but  he 
doesn't  seem  to  understand  dealing  with  guntlemcn.  Pres- 
sure comes ;"  he  waved  his  hand  swimmingly  ;  "  one  wants 
money,  and  gets  it  how  one  can.  Mr.  Samuels  shall  not  go 
to  bed  thinking  he  has  been  defrauded.  I  will  teach  Mr. 
Samuels  to  think  better  of  us  Gentiles.  Write  me  a 
receipt." 

"  For  what  amount,  sir?"  said  the  man,  briskly. 

"  For  the  value  of  the  opal — that  is  to  say,  for  the  value 


THE  MELTING  OP  THE  THOUSAND.  273 

pnt  npon  it  by  Mr.  Samuels.     Con — !  hang ! — never  mind. 
Write  the  receipt." 

He  east  a  fluttering  fifty  and  a  fluttering  five  on  the  table, 
and  pushed  paper  to  the  man  for  a  receipt. 

The  man  reflected,  and  refused  to  take  them. 

"  I  don't  think,  sir,"  he  said,  "  that  less  than  two-thirds 
of  the  bill  will  make  Mr.  Samuels  easy.  You  see,  this  opal 
was  in  a  necklace.  It  wasn't  like  a  ring  you  might  have 
taken  off  your  finger.  It's  a  lady's  ornament ;  and  soon  after 
you  obtain  it  from  us,  you  make  use  of  it  by  turning  it  into 
cash.  It's  a  case  for  a  criminal  prosecution,  which,  for  the 
sake  of  your  relations,  Mr.  Samuels  wouldn't  willingly  bring 
on.  The  criminal  box  is  no  place  for  you,  sir ;  but  Mr. 
Samuels  must  have  his  own.  His  mind  is  not  easy.  I 
shouldn't  like,  sir,  to  call  a  policeman." 

"Hey!"  shouted  Algernon j  "you'd  have  to  get  ^  war- 
rant." 

"  It's  out,  sir." 

Though  inclined  toward  small  villanies,  he  had  not  studied 
law,  and  judging  from  his  own  affrighted  sensations,  and  the 
man's  impassive  face,  Algernon  supposed  that  warrants  were 
as  lightly  granted  as  writs  of  summons. 

He  tightened  his  muscles.  In  his  time  he  had  talked 
glibly  of  Perdition ;  but  this  was  hot  experience.  He  and 
the  man  measured  the  force  of  their  eyes.  Algernon  let  his 
chest  fall. 

"  Do  you  mean  ?"  he  murmured, 

"  Why,  sir,  it's  no  use  doing  things  by  halves.  When  a 
tradesman  says  he  7nust  have  his  money,  he  takes  his  pre- 
cautions." 

"  Are  you  in  Mr.  Samuels'  shop  ?" 

"  ISTot  exactly,  sir." 

"  You're  a  detective  ?" 

"  I  have  been  in  the  service,  sir." 

"  Ah  !  now  I  understand."  Algernon  raised  his  head  with 
a  strain  at  haughtiness.  "  If  Mr.  Samuels  had  accompanied 
you,  I  would  have  discharged  the  debt.  It's  only  fair  that  I 
should  insist  upon  having  a  receipt  from  him  personally,  and 
for  the  whole  amount." 

With  this,  he  drew  forth  his  purse  and  displayed  tha 
notable  Five  hundred. 

T 


274  RnODA  FLEMING. 

His  glow  of  victory  Avas  slioi-t.  The  impassive  man  like- 
wise had  something  to  exhibit. 

"I  assure  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "Mr.  Samuels  does  know 
how  to  deal  with  gimtlemen.  If  you  will  do  me  the  honour, 
sii',  to  run  up  with  me  to  Mr.  Samuels'  shop  ? — Or,  very 
■well,  sir;  to  save  you  that  annoyance  here  is  his  receipt  to 
the  bill." 

Algernon  mechanically  crumpled  up  his  note. 

"  Samuels  ?"  ejaculated  the  unhappy  fellow.  "  Why,  my 
mother  dealt  with  Samuels.  ]\ly  aunt  dealt  with  Samuels. 
AH  my  family  have  dealt  with  him  for  years  ;  and  he  talks  of 
proceeding  against  me,  because — upon  my  soul,  it's  too 
absurd  !  Sending  a  policeman,  too  !  I'll  tell  you  what — 
the  exposure  w^ould  damage  Mister  Samuels  most  materially. 
Of  course,  my  father  would  have  to  settle  the  matter;  but 
Mister — Mishter  Samuels  would  not  recover  so  easily.  He'd 
be  glad  to  refund  the  five  hundred — what  is  it  ? — and 
twenty-five — why  not,  'and  sixpence  three  farthings?'  I 
tell  you,  I  shall  let  my  father  pay.  Mr.  Samuels  had  better 
serve  me  with  a  common  writ.  I  tell  you,  I'm  not  going  to 
denude  myself  of  money  altogether.  I  haven't  examined  the 
bill.  Leave  it  here.  You  can  tear  off  the  receipt.  Leave  it 
here." 

The  man  indulged  in  a  slight  demonsti-ation  of  dissent. 

•*  No,  sir,  that  won't  do." 

"Half  the  bill,"  roared  Algernon;  "half  the  bill,  I 
wouldn't  mind  paying." 

"  About  two-thirds,  sir,  is  what  Mr.  Samuels  asked  for, 
and  he'll  stop,  and  go  on  as  before." 

"  He'll  stop  and  he'll  go  on,  will  he  ?  !Mr.  Samuels  is 
amazingly  like  one  of  his  own  watches,"  Algernon  sneered 
vehemently.  "  Well,"  he  pursued,  in  fancied  security,  "  I'U 
pay  two-thirds." 

"  Three  hundred,  sir." 

"  Ay,  three  hundred.  Tell  him  to  send  a  receipt  for  the 
three  hundred,  and  he  shall  have  it  As  to  my  entering  his 
shop  again,  that  I  shall  have  to  think  over." 

"  That's  what  gentlemen  in  Mr.  Samuels'  position  have  to 
run  risk  of,  sir,"  said  the  man. 

Algernon,  more  in  astonishment  than  ti'cpidation,  observed 
him  fceliiig  at  his  breast-pocket.     The  actiwi  resulted  in  au 


THE  MELTING  OF  THE  THOUSAND.  275 

exliibition  of  a  second  bill,  with  a  legal  receipt  attached  to 
it,  for  three  hundred  pounds. 

"  Mr.  Samuels  is  anxious  to  accommodate  you  in  every 
•way,  sir.  It  isn't  the  full  sum  he  wants  ;  it's  a  portion.  He 
thouo-ht  you  might  pi'efer  to  discharge  a  portion." 

After  this  amazing  exhibition  of  foresight  on  the  part  of 
the  jeweller,  there  was  no  more  fight  in  Algernon  beyond  a 
strenuous  "  Faugh  !"  of  uttermost  disgust. 

He  examined  the  bill  and  receipt  in  the  man's  hand  with 
great  apparent  scrupulousness  ;  not,  in  reality,  seeing  a  clear 
syllable. 

"  Take  it  and  change  it,"  he  threw  his  Five  hundred 
down,  but  recovered  it  from  the  enemy's  grasp  ;  and  with  a 
*'  one,  two,  three,"  banged  his  hundreds  on  the  table :  for 
which  he  had  the  loathsome  receipt  handed  to  him. 

"  How,"  he  asked,  chokingly,  "  did  Mr.  Samuels  know  I 
could — I  had  money  ?" 

"  Why,  sir,  you  see,"  the  man,  as  one  who  throws  off  a 
mask,  smiled  cordially,  after  buttoning  up  the  notes; 
*' credit  'd  soon  give  up  the  ghost,  if  it  hadn't  its  own — ■ 
*  dodges,'  as  I  may  say.  This  is  only  a  feeler  on  Mr. 
Samuels'  part.  He  heard  of  his  things  going  to  pledge. 
Halloa !  he  sings  out.  And  tradesmen  are  human,  sir. 
Between  us,  I  side  with  gentlemen,  in  most  cases.  Hows'- 
ever,  I'm,  so  to  speak,  in  Mr.  Samuels'  pay.  A  young 
gentleman  in  debt,  give  him  a  good  fright,  out  comes  his 
money,  if  he's  got  any.  Sending  of  a  bill  receipted's  a  good 
trying  touch.  It's  a  compliment  to  him  to  suppose  he  can 
pay.  Mr.  Samuels,  sir,  wouldn't  go  issuing  a  warrant :  if 
he  could,  he  wouldn't.  You  named  a  warrant ;  that  set  me 
up  to  it.  I  shouldn't  have  dreamed  of  a  gentleman  sup- 
posing it  otherwise.  Didn't  you  notice  me  show  a  wall  of  a 
face  ?  I  shouldn't  ha'  dared  to  have  tried  that  on  an  old 
hand — ^begging  your  pardon;  I  mean  a  real — a  scoundrel. 
The  regular  ones  must  see  features  :  we  mustn't  be  too  cun- 
ning with  them,  else  they  grow  suspicious  :  they're  keen  as 
animals  ;  they  are.     Good  afternoon  to  you,  sir." 

Algernon  heard  the  door  shut.  He  reeled  into  a  chair, 
and  muffling  his  head  in  his  two  arms  on  the  table,  sobbed 
desperately  ;  seeing  himself  very  distinctly  reflected  in  one 
of  the  many  facets  of  folly.  Daylight  became  undesireable 
to  him.     He  went  to  bed. 

t2 


276  RnODA  PLEMINO. 

A  man  who  can,  in  sucli  extieniitics  of  despair,  g'o  j)re- 
meditatingly  to  his  pillow,  obeys  an  animal  instinct  in  pur- 
suit of  oblivion,  that  will  befriend  his  nerves.  Alci'ernon 
awoke  in  deep  darkness,  with  a  delicious  sensation  of  hunii^er. 
He  jumj)ed  up.  Six  hundred  and  titty  pounds  of  the  money 
remained  intact;  and  he  was  joyful.  He  struck  a  light  to 
look  at  his  watch  :  the  watch  hiid  stopped; — tliat  Avas  a  bad 
eign.  He  could  not  forget  it.  Why  had  his  watch  stopped? 
A  chilling  thought  as  to  whether  predestination  did  not 
govern  the  world,  allayed  all  tumult  in  his  mind.  He 
dressed  carefully,  and  soon  heard  a  groat  City  boll,  with 
horrid  gulfs  between  the  strokes,  tell  him  that  the  hour  was 
eleven  toward  midnight.     "  Not  late,"  he  said. 

"  Who'd  have  thought  it  ?"  cried  a  voice  on  the  landing  of 
the  stairs,  as  he  went  forth. 

It  was  Sedgett. 

Algernon  liad  one  inclination  to  strangle,  and  another  to 
mollify  the  wretch. 

"  Why,  sir,  I've  been  lui-king  heer  for  your  return  from 
your  larks.     Never  guessed  you  was  in." 

"  It's  no  use,"  Algernon  began. 

"Ay  ;  but  it  is,  though,"  said  Sedgett,  and  forced  his  way 
into  the  room.  "  Now,  just  listen.  I've  got  a  young  woman 
I  want  to  pack  out  o'  the  country.  I  must  do  it,  while  I'm 
a — a  bachelor  boy.  She  must  go,  or  we  shall  be  having 
shindies.  You  saw  how  she  caught  me  out  of  a  cab.  She's 
sure  to  be  in  the  place  whore  she  ain't  wanted.  She  goes  to 
America.  I've  got  to  pay  her  ])assage,  and  mine  too.  Here's 
the  truth:  she  thinks  I'm  off  with  her.  She  knows  I'm 
bankrup'  at  home.  So  I  am.  All  the  more  reason  for  her 
thinking  me  her  companion.  I  get  her  away  by  train  to  the 
vessel,  and  on  board,  and  there  I  give  her  the  slip. 

"  Ship's  steaming  away  by  this  time  t'morrow  night.  I've 
paid  for  her — and  myself  too,  she  thinks.  Leave  it  to  me. 
I'll  manage  all  that  neatly  enough.  But  heer's  the  truth  : 
I'm  stumped.  I  must,  and  I  will  have  fifty  ;  I  don't  want 
to  utter  ne'er  a  threat.  I  want  the  money,  and  if  you  don't 
give  it,  I  break  oif ;  and  you  mind  this,  Mr.  lUancovo: — you 
don't  come  off  s' easy,  if  I  do  break  off,  mind.     I   know  all 

about  your  relations,  and  by !  I'll  let  'em  know  all  about 

you.  Why,  you're  as  quiet  heer,  sir,  as  if  you  was  miles 
away,  in  a  wood  cottage,  and  ne'er  a  dog  near." 


LA  QUESTION  d'aKGENT.  277 

So  Algernon  was  thinking ;  and  witliout  a  light,  save  the 
gas-lamp  in  the  square,  moreover. 

They  wrangled  for  an  hour.  When  Algernon  went  forth 
a  second  time,  he  was  by  fifty  pounds  poorer.  He  consoled 
himself  by  thinking  that  the  money  had  only  anticipated  its 
destination  as  arranged,  and  it  became  a  partial  gratification 
to  him  to  reflect  that  he  had,  at  any  rate,  paid  so  much  of 
the  sum,  according  to  his  bond  in  assuming  possession  of  it. 

And  what  were  to  be  his  proceedings  ?  They  were  so 
manifestly  in  the  hands  of  fate,  that  he  declined  to  be 
troubled  on  that  head. 

Next  morning  came  the  usual  short  impatient  scrawl  on 
thin  blue  jDaper  from  Edward,  scarce  worthy  of  a  passing 
thought.  In  a  postscript,  he  asked  :  "  Are  there,  on  your 
oath,  no  letters  for  me  ?  If  there  are,  send  them  imme- 
diately— every  one,  bills  as  well.  Don't  fail.  I  must  have 
them."  f 

Algernon  was  at  last  persuaded  to  pack  up  Dahlia's  let- 
ters, saying  :  "  I  suppose  they  can't  do  any  harm  now." 
The  expense  of  the  postage  afflicted  him;  but  "women 
always  cost  a  dozen  to  our  one,"  he  remarked.  On  his  way 
to  the  City,  he  had  to  decide  whether  he  would  go  to  the 
Bank,  or  take  the  train  leading  to  Wrexby.  He  chose  the 
latter  course,  until,  feeling  that  he  was  about  to  embark  in 
a  serious  undertaking,  he  said  to  himself — "  No  !  duty  first ;" 
and  postponed  the  expedition  for  the  day  following. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

LA    QUESTION    d'ARGENT. 

Squiee  Blancove,  having  business  in  town,  called  on  his 
brother  at  the  Bank,  asking  whether  Sir  William  was  at 
home,  with  sarcastic  emphasis  on  the  title,  which  smelt  to 
him  of  commerce.  Sir  William  invited  him  to  dine  and 
sleep  at  his  house  that  night. 

"  You  will  meet  Mrs.  Lovell,  and  a  Major  Waring,  a  friend 
of  hers,  who  knew  her  and  her  husband  in  India,"  said  the 
baronet. 


278  nnoDA  flemino. 

"  The  dciico  I  sliall,"  said,  the  squire,  and  accepted 
maliciously. 

Where  tlie  squire  dined,  he  drank,  defying  ladies  and  the 
new-t'ungled  sulisiTvieiiey  to  those  Hustcring  tea-bodies. 
This  was  understood;  so,  "when  the  Claret  and  Port  had 
inaile  a  few  rounds,  !Major  Waring  was  })erniittid  to  follow 
j\l]s.  Lovell,  and  the  sijuire  and  his  brotlicr  settled  to  con- 
versation ;  beginning  upon  gout.  Sir  AVilliam  had  recently 
had  a  tonch  of  the  family  complaint,  and  spoke  of  it  ia 
terms  which  gave  the  squire  some  fi-aternal  sentiment. 
From  that,  they  fell  to  talking  politics,  and  differed.  Ttio 
breach  w^as  healed  by  a  divergence  to  their  sons.  The  squiro 
knew  his  own  to  be  a  scamp. 

"  You'll  never  do  anything  with  him,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall,"  Sir  William  admitted. 

"  Didn't  I  toll  you  so  ?" 

"  You  did.     But,  the  point  is,  what  will  you  do  with  him  ?'* 

*'  Send  him  to  Jericho  to  ride  wild  jackasses.  That's  all 
he's  fit  for." 

The  superior  complacency  of  Sir  William's  smile  caught 
the  squire's  attention. 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  Ned  ?"  he  asked. 

*'  I  hope,"  was  the  answer,  "  to  have  him  married  before 
the  year  is  out." 

"  To  the  widow  ?" 

"  The  widow-  ?"  Sir  William  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  ^frs.  LovcU,  I  mean." 

"  What  gives  you  that  idea  ?" 

"  Why,  JN^ed  has  made  her  an  offer.  Don't  you  know 
that  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  And  don't  believe  it  ?  He  has.  He's  only  waiting  now, 
over  tlieve  in  Paris,  to  get  comfortably  out  of  a  scra])e — yon 
remember  what  T  told  you  at  Fairly — and  then  I\Irs.  Level  I's 
going  to  have  him — as  he  thinks;  but,  by  George,  it  strikes 
me  tliis  major  you've  got  lure,  knows  how  to  follow  petti- 
coats and  get  in  liis  harvest  in  the  enemy's  absence." 

"  I  think  you're  quite  under  a  delusion,  in  both  respects," 
observed  Sir  William. 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ?" 

"I  have  Edward's  word." 

"  He  lies  as  naturally  as  an  infant  sucks.** 


LA  QUESTION  D'aEGENT.  279 

**  Pardon  me  ;  this  is  my  son  you  are  speaking-  of.** 

**  And  this  is  your  Port  I'm  drinking ;  so  I'll  say  no  more.'* 

The  squire  emptied  his  glass,  ard  Sir  "William  thrummed 
on  the  table. 

"  Now,  my  dog  has  got  his  name,"  the  squire  resumed. 
"  I'm  not  ambitious  about  him.  You  are,  about  yours  ;  and 
you  ought  to  know  him.  He  spends  or  he  don't  spend.  It's 
not  the  question  whether  he  gets  into  debt,  but  whether  he 
does  mischief  with  what  he  spends.  If  Algy's  a  bad  fish, 
Ned's  a  bit  of  a  serpent ;  damned  clever,  no  doubt.  I  sup- 
pose, you  wouldn't  let  him  marry  old  Fleming's  daughter, 
now,  if  he  wanted  to  ?" 

"  Who  is  Fleming  ?"  Sir  William  thundered  out. 

"  Fleming's  the  father  of  the  girl.  I'm  sorry  for  him. 
He  sells  his  farm — land  which  I've  been  looking  at  for 
years ;  so  I  profit  by  it ;  but  I  don't  like  to  see  a  man  like 
that  broken  up.  Algy,  I  said  before,  's  a  bad  fish.  Hang 
me,  if  I  think  he'd  have  behaved  like  Ned.  If  he  had,  I'd 
have  compelled  him  to  marry  her,  and  shipped  them  both  off, 
clean  out  of  the  country,  to  try  their  luck  elsewhere. 

"  You're  proud ;  I'm  practical.  I  don't  expect  you  to  do 
the  same.  I'm  up  in  London  now  to  raise  money  to  buy  the 
farm — Queen  Anne's  Farm ;  it's  advertized  for  sale,  I  see. 
Fleming  won't  sell  it  to  me  privately,  because  my  name's 
Blancove,  and  I'm  the  father  of  my  son,  and  he  fancies 
Algy's  the  man.  Why  ?  he  saw  Algy  at  the  <■  heatre  in 
London  with  this  girl  of  his ; — we  were  all  you^^g  fellows 
once ! — and  the  rascal  took  Ned's  burden  on  his  shoulders. 
So,  I  shall  have  to  compete  with  other  buyers,  and  pay,  I 
dare  say,  a  couple  of  hundi'ed  extra  for  the  property.  Do 
you  believe  what  I  tell  you  now  ?" 

"  Not  a  word  of  it,"  said  Sir  William  blandly. 

The  squire  seized  the  decanter  and  drank  in  a  fury. 

"  I  had  it  from  Algy." 

"  That  would  all  the  less  induce  me  to  believe  it." 

"  H'm !"  the  squire  frowned.  "  Let  me  tell  you — he's  a 
dog — but  it's  a  damned  hard  thing  to  hear  one's  own  flesh 
and  blood  abused.  Look  here  :  there's  a  couple.  One  of 
them  has  made  a  fool  of  a  girl.  It  can't  be  my  rascal — stop 
a  minute — he  isn't  the  man,  because  she'd  have  been  sure  to 
have  made  a  fool  of  him,  that's  certain.  He's  a  soft-hearted 
dog.     He'd  aim  at  a  cock-sparrow,  and  be  glad  if  he  missed* 


2?0  RnODA  FLEMING. 

There  yon  have  him.  He  was  one  of  yonr  good  boys.  I 
nsed  to  toll  his  poor  mother,  '  When  you  leave  off  thinking 
for  him,  he'll  go  to  the  first  handy  villain — and  that's  the 
devil.'  And  he's  done  it.  But,  here's  the  diil'erence.  He 
goes  himself ;  he  don't  send  another,  I'll  tell  you  what :  if 
you  don't  know  about  Mr.  Ned's  tricks,  you  ought.  And 
you  ought  to  make  him  marry  the  girl,  and  be  off  to  New 
Zealand,  or  any  of  the  upside-down  places,  where  he  might 
begin  by  farming,  and  soon,  with  his  abilities,  be  cock  o'  the 
walk.  He  would,  perhaps,  be  sending  us  a  letter  to  say  that 
he  piefeiTcd  to  break  away  from  the  mother  country  and 
establish  a  republic.  He's  got  the  same  political  opinions  as 
you.  Oh  !  he'll  do  well  enough  over  here  ;  of  course  he  Avill, 
He's  the  very  fellow  to  do  well.  Knock  at  him,  he's  hard  as 
nails,  and  '11  stick  anywhere.  You  wouldn't  listen  to  me, 
when  I  told  you  about  this  at  Fairly,  where  some  old  sweet- 
heart of  Ixje  girl  mistook  that  poor  devil  of  a  scapegoat,  Algy, 
for  him,  and  went  pegcfing  at  him  like  a  madman." 

"No,"  said  Sir  William;  "No,  I  would  not.  Nor  do  I 
now.  At  least,"  he  struck  out  his  right  hand  deprecatingly, 
*'  I  listen." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  what  he  was  doing  when  he  went  to 
Italy  ?"  » 

"  He  went  partly  at  my  suggestion." 

"  Turns  you  round  his  little  finger !  He  went  off  with 
this  girl :  wanted  to  educate  her,  or  some  nonsense  of  the 
sort.  That  was  Mr.  Ned's  business.  Upon  my  soul,  I'm 
Borry  for  old  Fleming.  I'm  told  he  takes  it  to  heart.  It's 
done  him  up.  Now,  if  it  should  turn  out  to  be  Ned,  would 
you  let  him  i-itrht  the  girl  by  marrying  her  ?     You  wouldn't !" 

"  The  principle  of  examining  your  hypothesis  before  you 
proceed  to  decide  by  it,  is  probably  unknown  to  you,"  Sir 
William  observed,  after  bestowing  a  considerate  smile  on 
his  brother,  who  mutllcd  himself  up  from  the  chilling  sen- 
tentiousness,  and  drank. 

Sir  William,  in  the  pride  of  superior  intellect,  had  heard 
as  good  as  nothing  of  the  charge  against  his  son. 

"  Well,"  said  the  squire,  "  think  as  you  like,  act  as  you 
like ;  all's  one  to  me.  You're  satisfied  ;  that's  clear ;  and 
I'm  some  hundred  of  pounds  out  of  pocket.  This  major's 
paying  court  to  the  widow,  is  he  ?" 

"  1  can't  say  that  he  is." 


LA  QUESTION  d'aRGENT.  281 

"  It  ^-onld  he  a  good  tiling  for  her  to  get  married." 

•'  I  should  be  glad." 

"  A  good  thing  for  her,  T  say." 

"  A  good  thing  for  him,  let  us  hope." 

*'  If  he  can  pay  her  debts." 

Sir  William  was  silent,  and  sipped  his  -wine. 

"  And  if  he  can  keep  a  tight  hand  on  the  reins.  Thafs 
•wanted,"  said  the  squire. 

The  gentleman  whose  road  to  happiness  was  thus  pre- 
scribed stood  by  Mrs.  Lovell's  chair,  in  the  drawing-room. 
He  held  a  letter  in  his  hand,  for  which  her  own  was  plead- 
ingly extended. 

"I  know  you  to  be  the  soul  of  truth,  Percy,"  she  was 
saying. 

"  The  question  is  not  that ;  but  whether  you  can  bear  the 
truth." 

"  Can  I  not  ?     Who  would  live  without  it  ?" 

"  Pardon  me ;  there's  more.  You  say,  you  admire  this 
friend  o£  mine ;  no  doubt  you  do.  Mind,  I  am  going  to  give 
you  the  letter.  I  wish  you  simply  to  ask  yourself  now, 
whether  you  are  satisfied  at  my  making  a  confidant  of  a 
man  in  Robert  Eccles's  position,  and  think  it  natural  and 
just — you  do  ?" 

"  Quite  just,"  said  Mrs.  Lovell ;  "  and  natural  ?  Yes, 
natural ;  though  not  common.  Eccentric ;  which  only 
means,  Tiors  du  commun ;  and  can  be  natural.  It  is  natural. 
I  was  convinced  he  was  a  noble  fellow,  before  I  knew  that 
you  had  made  a  friend  of  him.  I  am  sure  of  it  now.  And 
did  he  not  save  your  life,  Percy  ?" 

"  I  have  warned  you  that  you  are  partly  the  subject  of 
the  letter." 

"  Do  you  forget  that  I  am  a  woman,  and  want  it  all  the 
more  impatiently  ?" 

]\Iajor  Waring  suffered  the  letter  to  be  snatched  from  his 
hand,  and  stood  like  one  who  is  submitting  to  a  test,  or 
watching  the  effect  of  a  potent  drug. 

"  It  is  his  second  letter  to  you,"  Mrs.  Lovell  murmured. 
"I  see;  it  is  a  reply  to  yours." 

She  read  a  few  lines,  and  glanced  up,  blushing.  "  Am  I 
not  made  to  bear  more  than  I  deserve  ?" 

"  If  you  can  do  such  mischief,  without  meaning  any,  to  a 
man  who  is  in  love  with  another  woman ,"  said  Percy. 


2S2  imOBA  FLKMmO. 

"Yes,**  sTie  noclded,  "  I  perceive  the  dodnction ;  but 
inferences  a-e  like  shadows  on  the  wall — they  are  thrown 
from  an  object,  and  are  monstrnns  distortions  of  it.  That 
is  y>'\ij  you  misjudcfe  Avonien.  You  inter  one  thing  fiou) 
another,  and  are  ruled  by  the  inference." 

He  simply  bowed.  Edward  would  have  answered  her  in 
a  bright  strain,  and  led  her  on  to  say  biilliant  things,  and 
then  have  shown  her,  as  by  a  sudden  liglit,  that  she  had 
lost  herself,  and  reduced  her  to  feel  the  strength  and  safety 
of  his  hard  intellect.  That  was  the  idea  in  her  brain.  The 
next  moment  her  heart  ejected  it. 

"  Percy,  when  I  asked  permission  to  look  at  this  letter,  I 
was  not  aware  how  great  a  compliment  it  would  be  to  me  if 
I  was  permitted  to  see  it.     It  betrays  your  friend." 

"  It  betrays  something  more,"  said  he. 

Mrs.  Lovell  cast  down  her  eyes  and  read,  without  further 
comment. 

These  were  the  contents  : — 

"My  dear  Perct, 

"  Now  that  I  see  her  every  day  again,  I  ara  worse  than 
ever ;  and  I  remember  thinking  once  or  twice  that  Mrs.  L. 
had  cured  me.  I  am  a  sort  of  man  who  would  jump  to 
reach  the  top  of  a  mountain.  I  understand  how  superior 
Mrs.  L.  is  to  every  woman  in  the  world  I  have  seen ;  but 
Rhoda  cures  me  on  that  head.  Mrs.  Lovell  makes  men  mad 
and  happy,  and  Rhoda  makes  them  sensible  and  misei-able. 
I  have  had  the  talk  with  Rhoda.  It  is  all  over.  I  have  felt 
like  being  in  a  big  room  with  one  candle  alight  ever  since. 
She  has  not  looked  at  me,  and  does  nothing  but  get  by  her 
father  whenever  she  can,  and  takes  his  hand  and  holds  it. 
I  see  where  the  blow  has  struck  her:  it  has  killed  her 
pride  ;  and  Rhoda  is  almost  all  pride.  I  sup])ose  she  thinks 
our  plan  is  the  best.  She  has  not  said  she  does,  and  does 
not  mention  her  si.ster.  She  is  going  to  die,  or  she  turns 
nun,  or  marries  a  gentleman.  I  shall  never  get  her.  Slio 
will  not  forgive  me  for  bringing  this  news  to  her.  I  told 
you  how  she  coloured,  the  first  day  I  came  ;  which  has  all 
gone  now.  She  just  opens  her  lips  to  me.  You  remember 
Corporal  Thwaites — you  caught  his  horse,  when  ho  had  his 
foot  near  wrenched  oif ,  going  through  the  gate — and  his  way 
of  breathing  through  the  under-row  of  his  teeth — the  poor 


lA  QUESTION  d'akgent.  283 

creature  "u-as  in  sucli  pain — that's  "just  hoTV  ?lie  takes  her 
breath.  It  makes  her  look  sometimes  like  tiiat  woman's 
head  with  the  snakes  for  her  hair.  This  bothers  me — how  is  it 
you  and  Mrs.  Lovell  manage  to  talk  together  of  such 
things  ?  Why,  two  men  ratlier  hang  their  heads  a  bit. 
My  notion  is,  that  women — ladies,  in  especial,  ought  never 
to  hear  of  sad  things  of  this  sort.  Of  course,  I  mean,  if 
they  do,  it  cannot  harm  them.  It  only  upsets  me.  Why 
are  ladies  less  particular  than  girls  in  Rhoda's  place  ?" 

("  Shame  being  a  virtue,"  was  Mrs.  Lovell's  running 
comment.) 

"  She  comes  up  to  town  with  her  father  to-morrow.  The 
farm  is  ruined.  The  poor  old  man  had  to  ask  me  for  a  loan 
to  pay  the  journey.  Luckily,  Rhoda  has  saved  enough  with 
her  pennies  and  twopences.  Ever  since  I  left  the  fax'm,  it 
has  been  in  the  hands  of  an  old  donkey  here,  who  has 
worked  it  his  own  way.  What  is  in  the  ground  will  stop 
there,  and  may  as  well. 

"  I  leave  off  writing,  I  WTite  such  stuff ;  and  if  I  go  on  writing 

to  you,  I  shall  be  putting  these  things  ' !  !  !' 

The  way  you  write  about  Mrs.  Lovell,  convinces  me  you  are 
not  in  my  scrape,  or  else  gentlemen  are  just  as  different  from 
their  inferiors  as  ladies  are  from  theirs.  That's  the  question. 
What  is  the  meaning  of  your  '  not  being  able  to  leave  her  for 
a  day,  for  fear  she  should  fall  under  other  influences  ?'  Then, 
I  copy  your  words,  you  say,  '  She  is  all  things  to  everybody, 
and  cannot  help  it.'  In  that  case,  I  would  seize  my  oppor- 
tunity and  her  waist,  and  tell  her  she  was  locked  up  from 
anybody  else.  Friendship  with  men — but  I  cannot  under- 
stand friendship  with  women,  and  watching  them  to  keep 
them  right,  Avhich  must  mean  that  you  do  not  think  much  of 
them  -^— ." 

Mrs.  Lovell,  at  this  point,  raised  her  eyes  abruptly  from 
the  letter  and  returned  it. 

"  You  discuss  me  very  freely  to  j^our  friend,"  she  said. 

Percy  drooped  to  her.  "  I  warned  you  when  you  wished 
to  read  it." 

"But,  you  see,  you  have  bewildered  him.     It  was  scarcely 

wise  to  write  other  than  plain  facts.     Men  of  that  class -." 

She  stopped. 

"  Of  that  class  ?"  said  he. 


284  RnODA  FLEMINO. 

"Men  of  any  class,  then :  you  yourself:  if  anyone  wrote 
to  yoa  such  tliinys,  what  would  you  think  f*  It  is  very 
unfair.  I  have  tlie  honour  of  seeing  you  daily,  because  you 
cannot  trust  me  out  of  your  si^-ht  ?  AVliat  is  there  inexpli- 
cable about  me  ?  Do  yon  wonder  that  I  talk  openly  of  women 
who  are  betrayed,  and  do  my  best  to  help  them  r"' 

"  On  the  contiary  ;  you  command  my  esteem,"  said  Percy. 

"  lint  you  think  me  a  pupjiet  ?" 

"  Fond  of  them,  perhaps  H"  his  tone  of  voice  queried  in  a 
manner  that  made  her  smile. 

"  I  hate  them,"  she  said,  and  her  face  expressed  it. 

"But  you  make  them." 

"  How  ?     You  torment  me." 

"  How  can  I  explain  the  magic  ?  Are  you  not  making  one 
of  me  now,  where  I  stand  ?" 

"  Then,  sit." 

"  Or  kneel  ?" 

"  Oh,  Percy  !  do  nothing  ridiculous." 

Inveterate  insight  was  a  charactei-istic  of  Major  "Waring ; 
but  he  was  not  the  less  in  Mrs.  Lovell's  net.  He  knew  it  to 
be  a  charm  that  she  exercised  almost  unknowingly.  She  was 
Bimply  a  sweet  instrument  for  those  who  could  play  on  it, 
and  therein  lay  her  mighty  fascination.  Robert's  blunt 
advice  that  he  should  seize  the  chance,  take  her  and  mako 
her  his  own,  was  powerful  with  him.  He  checked  the  pai'- 
ticular  appropriating  action  suggested  by  Robei't. 

"  I  owe  you  an  explanation,"  he  said.  "  Margaret,  my 
friend." 

"  You  can  think  of  me  as  a  friend,  Percy  ?" 

"If  I  can  call  you  my  fiiend,  what  woiild  I  not  call  you 
besides  ?  I  did  you  a  gi'cat  and  shameful  wrong  when  you 
were  younger.  Hush  !  you  did  not  desei-ve  that.  Judge 
of  yourself  as  you  will ;  but  I  know  now  what  my  feelings 
were  then.  The  sublime  executioner  was  no  moi-e  than  a 
spiteful  man.  You  give  me  your  pardon,  do  you  not?  Your 
hand  ?" 

She  had  reached  her  hand  to  him,  but  withdrew  it  quickly. 

"Not  your  hand,  Margaret?  liut,  you  must  give  it  to 
some  one.     You  will  be  ruined,  if  you  do  not." 

She  looked  at  him  with  full  eyes.  "  You  know  it  then  ?*' 
she  said  slowly  ;  but  the  gaze  diminished  as  he  went  on. 


LA  QUESTION  d'AEGENT.  285 

**  I  know,  by  what  I  know  of  you,  that  you  of  all  women 
should  owe  a  direct  allegiance.  Come  ;  I  will  assume  privi- 
leges.    Are  you  free  ?" 

"  Would  you  talk  to  me  so,  if  you  thought  otherwise  ?" 
she  asked. 

"  I  think  I  would,"  said  Percy.  "  A  little  depends  upon 
the  person.  Are  you  pledged  at  all  to  Mr.  Edward  Blan- 
cove  ?" 

"  Do  you  suppose  me  one  to  pledge  myself  ?" 

"  He  is  doing  a  base  thing." 

"  Then,  Percy,  let  an  assurance  of  my  knowledge  of  that 
be  my  answer." 

"  You  do  not  love  the  man  ?" 

"Despise  him,  say !" 

"  Is  he  aware  of  it  ?" 

*'  If  clear  writing  can  make  him." 

"You  have  told  him  as  much  ?" 

"  To  his  apprehension,  certainly." 

"  Further,  Margaret,  I  must  speak : — did  he  act  with  your 
concurrence,  or  knowledge  of  it  at  all,  in  acting  as  he  has 
done  ?" 

"  Heavens  !  Percy,  you  question  me  like  a  husband." 

"  It  is  what  I  mean  to  be,  if  I  may." 

The  frame  of  the  fair  lady  quivered  as  from  a  blow,  and 
then  her  eyes  rose  tenderly. 

"  I  thought  you  knew  me.     This  is  not  possible." 

"  You  will  not  be  mine  ?     Why  is  it  not  possible  f " 

"  I  think  I  could  say,  because  I  respect  you  too  much." 

"Because  you  find  you  have  not  the  courage  ?" 

"For  what?" 

"  To  confess  that  you  were  under  bad  influence,  and  were 
not  the  Mai'gai^et  I  can  make  of  you.  Put  that  aside.  If 
you  remain  as  you  are,  think  of  the  snares.  If  you  marry 
one  you  despise,  look  at  the  pit.  Yes  ;  you  will  be  mine ! 
Half  my  love  of  my  country  and  my  profession  is  love  of  you. 
Margaret  is  fire  in  my  blood.  I  used  to  pray  for  opportunities, 
that  Margaret  might  hear  of  me.  I  knew  that  gallant  actions 
touched  her;  I  would  have  fallen  gladly;  I  was  sure  her 
heart  would  leap  when  she  heard  of  me.  Let  it  beat  against 
mine.     Speak !" 

"  I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Lovell,  and  she  suppressed  the  throbs 


2feB  EHODA  FLEMING. 

of  lior  bosom.     FTcr  voice  was  liarsh  and  her  face  bloodless. 
*'  J  low  much  money  have  you,  Percy?" 

This  sudden  sluicing  of  cold  water  on  his  heat  of  passion 
pctvilicd  him. 

"^loney,"  he  said,  with  a  stranj^e  frigid  scrutiny  of  her 
features.  As  in  the  flash  of  a  mirror,  he  beheld  her  bony, 
worn,  sordid,  unacccjitable.  But  he  was  fain  to  admit  it  to 
be  an  eminently  proper  demand  for  enlightenment. 

He  said  deliberately,  "  I  possess  an  income  of  live  hundi-ed 
a  yeai-,  extraneous,  and  in  addition  to  my  pay  as  major  in 
Her  ^Majesty's  service." 

Then  he  paused,  and  the  silence  was  like  a  growing  chasm 
between  them. 

She  broke  it  by  saying,  "  Have  j'on  any  expectations  ?" 

This  was  crueller  still,  though  no  lontrer  astonishing.  He 
complained  in  his  heart  merely  that  her  voice  had  become 
60  unpleasant. 

With  emotionless  precision,  he  replied,  "  At  my  mother's 
death " 

She  interposed  a  soft  exclamation. 

"  At  my  mother's  death  there  will  come  to  me  by  reversion, 
five  or  six  thousand  pounds.  When  my  father  dies,  he  may 
possibly  bequeath  his  property  to  me.  On  that  I  cannot 
count." 

Veritable  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  Was  she  affecting  to 
•weep  sympathetically  in  view  of  these  remote  contingencies? 

"  You  will  not  pretend  that  you  know  me  now,  Percy," 
ghe  said,  trying  to  smile;  and  she  had  recovered  the  natural 
feminine  key  of  her  voice.  "  1  am  mercenary,  you  see ;  not 
a  mercenary  fiiend.  So,  keep  me  as  a  friend — say  you  will 
be  my  friend." 

"  Nay,  you  had  a  right  to  know,"  he  protested. 

"  It  was  disgraceful — hori-ible ;  but  it  was  necessary  for 
me  to  know." 

"  And  now  that  you  do  know  ?" 

"  Now  that  I  know,  I  have  only  to  say — be  as  merciful  in 
your  idea  of  me  as  you  can." 

She  droi)])ed  her  hand  in  his,  and  it  was  with  a  thrill  of 
dismay  that  ho  felt  the  rush  of  passion  reanimating  his 
frozen  veins. 

"  He  merncnaiy,  but  be  mine!  I  will  give  you  something' 
better  to  live  lor    than    this    absurd  life  of   fashion.     Yott 


Edward's  return.  287 

reckon  on  what  our  expenditure  will  be  by  that  standard. 
It's  comparative  poverty ;  but — but  you  can  have  some 
luxuries.  You  can  have  a  carriage,  a  horse  to  ride.  Active 
service  may  come :  I  may  rise.  Give  yourself  to  me,  and 
you  must  love  me,  and  regret  nothing." 

"Nothing !  I  should  regret  nothing.  I  don't  want  carriages, 
or  horses,  or  luxuries.  I  could  live  with  you  on  a  subaltei'n's 
pay.  I  can't  marry  you,  Percy,  and  for  the  very  reason  which 
would  make  me  wish  to  marry  you." 

"Charade!"  said  he;  and  the  contempt  of  the  utterance 
brought  her  head  close  under  his. 

"  Dearest  friend,  you  have  not  to  learn  how  to  punish  me." 

The  little  reproach  added  to  the  wound  to  his  pride,  required 
a  healing  medicament ;  she  put  her  lips  to  his  fingers. 

Assuredly  the  comedy  would  not  have  ended  there,  but  it 
was  stopped  by  an  intrusion  of  the  squire,  followed  by  Sir 
William,  who,  while  the  squire — full  of  wine  and  vindictive 
humours — went  on  humming,  "  Ah  !  h'm — m — m  !  Soh  !' 
said  in  the  doorway  to  some  one  behind  him :  "  And  if  you 
have  lost  your  key,  and  Algernon  is  away,  of  what  use  is  it 
to  drive  down  to  the  Temple  for  a  bed  ?  I  make  it  an  especial 
request  that  you  sleep  here  to-night.  I  wish  it.  I  have  to 
speak  with  you." 

Mrs.  Lovell  was  informed  that  the  baronet  had  been 
addressing  his  son,  who  was  fresh  from  Paris,  and  not,  in 
his  own  modest  opinion,  presentable  before  a  lady. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Edward's    return. 

Once  more  Farmer  Fleming  and  Rhoda  prepared  for  their 
melancholy  journey  up  to  London.  A  light  cart  was  at  the 
gateway,  near  which  Robert  stood  with  the  farmer,  who,  in 
his  stiff  brown  overcoat,  that  reached  to  his  ankles,  and 
broad  country-hat,  kept  his  posture  of  dumb  expectation  like 
a  stalled  ox,  and  nodded  to  Robert's  remarks  on  the  care 
which  the  garden  had  been  receiving  latterly,  the  many 
roses  clean  in  bud,  and  the  trim  blue  and  white  and  red 
garden  beds.     Every  word  was  a  blow  to  him ;  but  he  took 


28S  KEOUA  FLEMING. 

it,  as  well  as  Rhoda's  apparent  dilatoriness,  amonq'  (he  thniccs 
to  be  submitted  to  by  a  man  cut  away  by  the  i-oots  from  the 
home  of  his  labour  and  old  associations.  Above  his  bowed 
head  there  was  a  board  proclaiming  that  Queen  Anne's  Farm, 
and  all  belonging  thereunto,  Avas  for  sale.  His  pi-uspect  in  the 
vague  wiklei'ness  of  the  futui-e,  was  to  seek  for  acceptance 
as  a  common  laboui-er  on  some  kind  gentleman's  property. 
The  phrase  'kind  gentleman  '  Avas  adopted  by  his  deliberate 
irony  of  the  fate  which  cast  him  out.  Robert  was  stamping 
fretfully  for  Rhoda  to  come.  At  times,  Mrs.  Sumfit  showed 
her  head  fi-om  the  window  of  her  bed-room  crying, "  D'rectly !" 
and  disappearing. 

The  still  aspect  of  the  house  on  the  shining  May  afternoon 
•was  otherwise imdistuibed.  Besides  Rhoda,  ]\Iaster  Gammon 
■VN'as  being  waited  for ;  on  whom  would  devolve  the  driving 
of  the  cart  bacl^'fi'om  the  station.  Robert  heaped  his  vexed 
exclamations  upon  this  old  man.  The  farmer  restrained  his 
voice  in  Master  Gammon's  defence,  thinking  of  the  compari- 
son he  could  make  between  him  and  Robert :  for  Master 
Gammon  had  never  run  away  from  the  farm  and  kept  absent, 
leaving  it  to  take  care  of  itself.  Gammon,  slow  as  he  might 
be,  was  faithful,  and  it  was  not  he  who  had  made  it  neces- 
sary for  the  farm  to  be  sold.  Gammon  was  obstinate,  but  it 
•was  not  he  who,  after  taking  a  lead,  and  making  the  farm  de- 
pendent on  his  lead,  had  absconded  with  the  brains  and. 
energy  of  the  establishment.  Such  reflections  passed  through 
the  farmer's  mind. 

.Rhoda  and  Mi-s.  Sumfit  came  together  down  the  trim  path- 
way ;  and  Robert  now  had  a  clear  charge  against  jMaster 
Gammon.     He  recommended  an  immediate  depai-ture. 

"  The  horse  '11  bring  himself  home  quite  as  well  and  as 
fast  as  Gammon  will,"  he  said. 

"  But  for  the  shakin'  and  the  joltin',  which  tells  o'  sovereigns 
and  silver,"  Mrs.  Sumfit  Avas  observing  to  Rhoda,  "  you  might 
carry  the  box — and  who  Avould  haA'e  guessed  how  stout  it 
•was,  and  me  to  hit  it  Avith  a  poker  and  not  break  it,  I  couldn't, 
nor  get  a  single  one  through  the  slit ; — the  sight  I  Avas,  wnth 
a  poker  in  my  hand  !  I  do  declare  I  felt  azactly  like  a  house- 
breaker ; — and  no  soul  to  notice  Avhat  you  carries.  When 
you  hear  the  gold,  my  dear,  go  so  " — Mrs.  Sumfit  pei-formed 
a  methodical  "  Ahem  !"  and  noised  the  sole  of  her  shoe  on  the 
gravel — "so,  and  folks  '11  think  it's  a  mistake  they  made." 


EDWARD'S  EETUEN.  289 

"  What's  that?" — the  farmer  pointed  at  a  projection  under 
Rhoda's  shawl. 

"It  is  a  present,  father,  for  my  sister,"  said  Rhoda. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  the  farmer  questioned  again. 

Mrs.  Sumiit  fawned  before  him  penitently — "Ah!  William, 
she's  poor,  and  she  do  want  a  little  to  spend,  or  she  ivill  be  so 
nipped  and  like  a  frost-bitten  body,  she  will.  And,  perhajis, 
dear,  haven't  money  in  her  sight  for  next  day's  dinner,  which 
is — oh,  such  a  pasic  for  a  young  wife  !  for  it  ain't  her  hunger, 
dear  William — her  husband,  she  thinks  of.  And  her  cookery 
at  a  stand-still !  Thinks  she,  '  he  will  charge  it  on  the  kit- 
chen ;'  so  unreasonable's  men.  Yes,"  she  added,  in  answer  to 
the  rigid  dejection  of  his  look,  "  I  said  true  to  you.  I  know 
I  said,  '  Not  a  penny  can  I  get,  William,'  when  you  asked  me 
for  loans  ;  and  how  could  I  get  it  ?  I  can't  get  it  now.  See 
here,  dear!" 

She  took  the  box  from  under  Rhoda's  shawl,  and  rattled  it 
with  a  down  turn  and  an  up  turn. 

"  You  didn't  ask  me,  dear  William,  whether  I  had  a 
money-6o^.  I'd  ha'  told  you  so  at  once,  had  ye  but  asked 
me.  And  had  you  said,  '  Gi'  me  your  money- &oa;,'  it  was 
yours,  only  for  your  asking.  You  do  see,  you  can't  get  any 
of  it  out.  So,  when  you  asked  for  money,  I  was  right  to  say, 
I'd  got  none." 

The  farmer  bore  with  her  dreary  rattling  of  the  box  in 
demonstration  of  its  retentive  capacities.  The  mere  force  of 
the  show  stopped  him  from  retorting ;  but  when,  to  excuse 
Master  Gammon  for  his  tardiness,  she  related  that  he  also 
had  a  money-box,  and  was  in  search  of  it,  the  farmer  threw 
np  his  head  with  the  vigour  of  a  young  man,  and  thundered 
for  Master  Gammon,  by  name,  vehemently  wi-athful  at  the 
combined  hypocrisy  of  the  pair.  He  called  twice,  and  his 
face  was  purple  and  red  as  he  turned  toward  the  cart, 
saying : 

"  We'll  go  without  the  old  man." 

Mrs.  Sumfit  then  intertwisted  her  fingers,  and  related  how 
that  she  and  Master  Gammon  had  one  day,  six  years  distant, 
talked  on  a  lonely  evening  over  the  mischances  which  befel 
poor  people  when  they  grew  infirm,  or  met  with  accident, 
and  what  "useless  clays  "  they  were ;  and  yet  they  had  their 
feeling's.  It  was  a  long  and  confidential  talk  on  a  summer 
evening ;  and^  at  the  end  of  it.  Master  Gammon  walked  into 

u 


290  RnODA  FLEMING. 

Wrcxby,  and  paid  a  visit  to  Mr.  Hammond,  the  carpenter 
Nvho  produced  two  strong  saving-lioxes  excellently  manu- 
factured by  his  own  hand,  without  a  lid  to  them,  or  lock  and 
key:  so  that  there  would  be  no  getting  at  the  contents  until 
the  boxes  were  full,  or  a  jjressing  occasion  counselled  the 
desti'uction  of  the  boxes.  A  constant  subject  of  jest  between 
!Mrs.  Suinlit  and  blaster  GaTunion  was,  as  to  Avhich  first  of 
them  would  be  over])o\vered  by  curiosity  to  know  the  amount 
of  their  respective  savings  ;  and  their  confessions  of  mutual 
■weakness  and  futile  endeavours  to  extract  one  piece  of  gold 
from  the  hoard. 

"  And  now,  think  it  or  not,"  said  Mrs.  Sumfit,  "  I  got  that 
power  over  him,  fi-oni  doctorin'  him,  and  cookin'  for  him,  I 
persuaded  him  to  help  my  poor  Dahly  in  my  blessed's  need. 
I'd  like  him  to  do  it  bv  halves,  but  he  can't." 

blaster  Gammon  appeared  round  a  corner  of  the  house,  his 
box,  draped  by  his  handkerchief,  under  his  arm.  The  farmer 
and  Robert  knew,  Avhev;  he  was  in  sight,  that  gestures  and 
shouts  expressing  extremities  of  the  need  for  haste,  would 
fail  to  accelerate  his  steps,  so  they  allowed  him  to  come  on 
at  his  own  equal  pace,  steady  as  Time,  with  the  peculiar 
lopping  bend  of  knees  which  jerked  the  moveless  trunk 
regularly  upward,  and  the  ancient  round  eyes  fixed  contem- 
platively forwartl.  There  was  an  affectingness  in  this  view 
of  the  mechanical  old  man  bearing  his  poor  hoard  to  bestow 
it. 

Robert  said  out,  unawares,  "He  mustn't  be  let  to  part 
■with  his  old  pennies." 

"  No,"  the  farmer  took  him  up ;  "  nor  I  won't  let  him." 

"  Yes,  father !"  Rhoda  intercepted  his  address  to  Master 
Gammon.  "Yes,  father!"  she  hai-dened  her  accent.  "It  is 
for  my  sister.     He  does  a  good  thing.     Let  him  do  it." 

"  Mas'  Gammon,  what  ha'  ye  got  there  ?"  the  farmer  sung 
out. 

But  Master  Gammon  knew  that  he  was  about  his  own 
business.  He  was  a  difficult  old  man  when  he  served  the 
farmer ;  lie  was  (|uite  unmanageable  in  his  private  affairs. 

AV'ithout  replying,  he  said  to  Mrs.  Sumtit — 

"  I'd  gummed  it." 

The  side  of  the  box  showed  that  it  had  been  made  adhe- 
sive, for  the  sake  of  security,  to  another  substance. 

"  That's  what's  caused  ye  to  be  so  long,  Mas'  Gammon  ?** 


Edward's  return.  291 

The  veteran  of  the  fields  responded  witli  a  grin,  designed 
to  show  a  lively  cunning. 

"  Deaiy  me,  Mas'  Gammon,  I'd  give  a  fortnight's  work  to 
know  how  ranch  you'm  saved,  now,  T  would.  And,  there ! 
Your  comfort's  in  vour  heart.  And  it  shall  be  paid  to  von. 
I  do  pi"av  heaven  in  mercy  to  forgive  me,"  she  whimpered, 
"  if  ever  knowin'ly  I  hasted  yon  at  a  meal,  or  did  deceive 
you  when  yon  looked  for  the  pickings  of  fresh-killed  pig. 
But  if  yon  only  knew  how — to  cook — it  spoils  the  temper 
of  a  woman  !  I'd  a  aunt  was  cook  in  a  gentleman's  fam'ly, 
and  daily  he  dirtied  his  thirteen  plates — never  more  nor 
never  less  ;  and  one  day — was  ever  a  woman  punished  so  ! 
her  best  black  silk  dress  she  greased  from  the  top  to  the 
bottom,  and  he  sent  down  nine  clean  plates,  and  no  word 
vouchsafed  of  explanation.  For  gentlefolks,  tbey  won't 
teach  themselves  how  it  do  hang  together  with  cooks  in  a 
kitchen " 

"  Jump  up,  Mas'  Gammon,"  cried  the  farmer,  wrathful  at 
having  been  deceived  by  two  members  of  his  household,  who 
had  sworn  to  him,  both,  that  they  had  no  money,  and  had 
disregarded  his  necessity.     Such  being  human  nature  ! 

Mrs.  Sumfit  confided  the  termination  of  her  story  to 
Rhoda ;  or  suggested  leather,  at  what  distant  point  it  might 
end ;  and  then,  giving  Master  Gammon's  box  to  her  custody, 
with  directions  for  Dahlia  to  take  the  boxes  to  a  carpenter's 
shop — not  attempting  the  power  of  pokers  upon  them— and 
count  and  make  a  mental  note  of  the  amount  of  the  rival 
hoards,  she  sent  Dahlia  ail  her  messages  of  smirking  reproof, 
and  delighted  love,  and  hoped  that  they  would  soon  meet 
and  know  happiness. 

Rhoda,  as  usual,  had  no  emotion  to  spare.  She  took  pos- 
session of  the  second  box,  and  thus  laden,  suffered  Robert  to 
lift  her  into  the  cart.  They  drove  acioss  the  green,  past  the 
mill  and  its  flashing  waters,  and  into  the  road,  where  the 
waving  of  Mrs.  Sumfit's  desolate  handkerchief  was  latest 
seen. 

A  horseman  rode  by,  whom  Rhoda  recognized,  and  she 
blushed  and  had  a  boding  shiver.  Robert  marked  him,  and 
the  blush  as  well. 

It  was  Algernon,  upon  a  livery-stable  hack.  His  coun- 
tenance expressed  a  mighty  disappointment. 

The  farmer  saw  no  one.     The  ingTatitude  and  treachery  of 

u  2 


292  TtnODA  FLEMING. 

Robert,  and  of  ]\Irs.  Suinlit  and  Muster  G.ammon,  kept  liim 
broodin<>'  in  sombre  disgust  of  life.  He  remarked  that  the 
cart  jolted  a  good  deal. 

"  IF  yon  goes  in  a  cart,  wi'  company  o'  four,  you  expects  to 
be  jolted,"  said  ^Master  Gammon. 

"  You  seem  to  like  it,"  Kobert  observed  to  the  latter. 

"  Tt  don't  disturb  ony  in'ards,"  qiioth  the  serenest  of 
mankind. 

"  Gammon,"  the  farmer  addressed  mm  from  the  front 
seat,  without  turning  his  head  :  "you'll  take  and  look  about 
for  a  new  place." 

Master  Gammon  digested  the  recommendation  in  silence. 
On  its  being  repeated,  with,  "  D'ye  hear  ?"  he  replied  that 
he  heard  well  enough. 

''  Well,  then,  look  about  ye  sharp,  or  maybe,  you'll  be  out 
in  the  cold,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  Na,"  returned  Master  Gammon,  "  ah  never  fi-ets  till  I'm 
pinched." 

"  I've  given  ye  notice,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  No,  you  ha'n't,"  said  Master  Gammon. 

"  I  give  ye  notice  now." 

"No,  you  don't." 

"  How  d'ye  mean  ?" 

"  'Cause  I  don't  take  ne'er  a  notice." 

"  Then  you'll  be  kicked  out,  old  man." 

"  Hey !  there  y'  have  me,"  said  Master  Gammon.  "  1 
growed  at  the  farm,  and  you  don't  go  and  tell  ne'er  a  tree  t' 
walk." 

Rhoda  laid  her  fingers  in  the  veteran's  palm. 

"  You're  a  long-lived  family,  aren't  you,  jNIaster  Gammon  ?" 
said  Robert,  eyeing  Rhoda's  action  enviously. 

Master  Gammon  bade  him  go  to  a  certain  churchyard  in 
Sussex,  and  inspect  a  particular  tombstone,  upon  whieh  the 
ages  of  his  ancestry  were  written.  They  were  more  like  the 
ages  of  oaks  than  of  men. 

"  It's  the  heart  kills,"  said  Robert. 

"  It's  d;imncd  misfortune,"  murmured  the  farmer. 

"It  is  tlie  wickedness  in  the  world,"  thought  Rlioda. 

"It's  a  poor  stomach,  I  reckon,"  Master  Gammon  rumi- 
nated. 

They  took  leave  of  him  at  the  station,  from  wliich  eminence 
it  was  a  notable  thing  to  see  him  in  the  road  benca;h,  making 


Edward's  return.  293 

prepaiations  for  liis  return,  like  a  conqueror  of  fhe  hours. 
Others  might  run,  and  stew,  if  they  liked  :  Master  Gammon 
had  chosen  his  pace,  and  was  not  of  a  mind  to  change  it  for 
anybody  or  anything.  It  was  his  boast  that  he  had  never 
ridden  by  railway  :  "  nor  ever  means  to,  if  I  can  help  it,"  he 
would  say.  He  was  very  much  in  harmony  with  universal 
nature,  if  to  be  that  is  the  secret  of  human  life. 

Meantime,  Algernon  retraced  his  way  to  the  station  in 
profound  chagrin :  arriving  there  just  as  the  train  was  visible. 
He  caught  sight  of  the  cart  with  Master  Gammon  in  it,  and 
asked  him  whether  all  his  people  were  going  up  to  London ; 
but  the  reply  was  evidently  a  mile  distant,  and  had  not 
started  ;  so  puttiug  a  sovereign  in  Master  Gammon's  hand, 
together  with  the  i-eins  of  his  horse,  Algernon  bade  the  old 
man  conduct  the  animal  to  the  White  Bear  Inn,  and  thus 
violently  pushing  him  off  the  tramways  of  his  intelligence, 
left  him  stranded. 

He  had  taken  a  first-class  retura-ticket,  of  course,  being  a 
gentleman.  In  the  desperate  hope  that  he  might  jump  into 
a  carriao-e  with  Rhoda,  he  entered  one  of  the  second-class 
compartments  ;  a  fact  not  only  foreign  to  his  tastes  and  his 
habits,  but  somewhat  disgraceful,  as  he  thought.  His  trust 
was,  that  the  ignoble  of  this  earth  alone  had  beheld  him :  at 
any  rate,  his  ticket  was  first  class,  as  the  guard  would 
instantly  and  respectfully  perceive,  and  if  he  had  the  discom- 
forts, he  had  also  some  of  the  consolations  of  virtue. 

Once  on  his  way,  the  hard  seat  and  the  contemptible  society 
surrounding  him,  assured  his  reflective  spirit  that  he  loved  : 
otherwise,  was  it  in  reason  that  he  should  endure  these  hard- 
ships P  "  I  really  love  the  girl,"  he  said,  fidgetting  for 
cushions. 

He  was  hot,  and  wanted  the  window  up,  to  which  his 
fellow-travellers  assented.  Then,  the  atmosphere  becoming 
loaded  with  offence  to  his  morbid  sense  of  smell,  he  wanted 
the  windows  down;  and  again  they  assented.  "By  Jove! 
I  must  love  the  girl,"  ejaculated  Algei-non  inwardly,  as  cramp, 
cold,  and  afflicted  nostrils  combined  to  astonish  his  physical 
sensations.  Nor  was  it  displeasing  to  him  to  evince  that  he 
was  unaccustomed  to  bare  boards. 

"  We're  a  rich  country,"  said  a  man  to  his  neighbour ; 
"  but,  if  you  don't  pay  for  it,  you  must  take  your  luck,  and 
they'll  make  3'ou  as  uncomfortable  as  they  can." 


201  KnODA  PLEMINO. 

"Aj,"  said  the  other.  "I've  travelled  on  the  Continent. 
The  si'cond-class  carriages  there  are  tit  for  anybody  to  travel 
in.  This  is  what  comes  of  tlie  worship  of  money — the  indi- 
vidual IS  not  respected.     Poiinds  alone  !" 

"  These,"  thoujjfht  Algernon,  "are  beastly  democrats." 

Their  remarks  had  been  sympathetic  with  his  manifesta- 
tions, which  had  probably  suggested  them.  He  glowered 
out  of  the  window  in  an  exceedingly  foreign  manner.  A 
plainly  dressed  woman  requested  that  the  window  should  be 
closed.  One  of  the  men  immediately  proceeded  to  close  it. 
Algernon  stopj)ed  him. 

" Pardon 7?ie,  sir,"  said  the  man;  "it's  a  lady  wants  it  done;" 
and  he  did  it. 

A  lady  !  Algernon  determined  that  these  were  the  sort  of 
people  he  should  hate  for  life.  "  Go  among  them  and  then 
see  what  they  are,"  he  addressed  an  imaginary  assembly  of 
anti-democrats,  as  from  a  senatorial  chair  set  in  the  after 
(lays.  Cramp,  cold,  ill-ordered  smells,  and  etei-nal  hatr^ul  of 
his  fellow-passengers,  convinced  him,  in  their  aggregation, 
that  he  surmounted  not  a  little  for  love  of  Rlioda. 

The  tiain  arrived  in  London  at  dusk.  Algernon  saw 
Rlioda  step  from  a  carriage  near  the  engine,  assisted  by- 
Robert  ;  and  old  Anthony  w^as  on  the  platform  to  welcome 
her ;  and  Anthony  seized  her  bag,  and  the  troop  of  pas- 
sengers moved  away.  It  may  be  supposed  that  Algernon 
had  angry  sensations  at  sight  of  Robert ;  and  to  a  certain 
extent  this  was  the  case  ;  but  he  was  a  mercurial  youth,  and 
one  who  had  satisfactorily  proved  superior  strength  enjoyed 
a  portion  of  his  respect.  Besides,  if  Robert  perchance  should 
be  couiting  Rhoda,  he  and  Robert  would  enter  into  another 
field  of  controversy  ;  and  Robert  might  be  taught  a  lesson. 

He  followed  the  party  on  foot  until  they  reached  Anthony's 
dwelling-place,  noted  the  house,  and  sped  to  the  Temj)le. 
There,  he  found  a  telegraphic  message  from  Edward,  that 
had  been  awaiting  him  since  the  morning. 

"  Stop  it,"  were  the  sole  words  of  the  communication: 
brief,  and  if  one  preferred  to  think  so,  enigmatic. 

"  What  on  eartli  does  he  mean  ?"  cried  Algernon,  and 
affected  again  and  again  to  see  what  Edward  meant,  without 
success.  "  Stop  it  ? — stop  what  ? — Stop  the  train  ?  Stop 
my  watch  ?  Stop  the  universe  H  Oh  !  this  is  rank  humbug.  ' 
He  flung  the  paper  down,  and  fell  to  counting  the  money  in 


edwaed's  return.  295 

his  possession.     The  more  it  dwindled,  the  moi^e  imperative 
it  became  that  he  should  depart  from  his  cuuuiry. 

Behind  the  figures,  he  calculated  that,  in  all  probability, 
Rhoda  would  visit  her  sister  this  night.  "  I  can't  stop  that," 
he  said:  and  hearing  a  clock  strike,  "nor  that:"  a  knock 
sounded  on  the  door ;  "  nor  that."  The  reflection  inspii-ed 
him  with  fatalistic  views. 

Sedgett  appeared,  and  was  welcome.  Algernon  had  to 
check  the  impulse  of  his  hand  to  stretch  out  to  the  fellow,  so 
welcome  was  he.  Sedgett  stated  that  everything  stood  ready 
for  the  morrow.  He  had  accomplished  all  that  had  to  be 
done. 

"  And  it's  more  than  many  'd  reckon,"  he  said,  and  rubbed 
his  hands,  and  laughed.  "  I  was  aboard  ship  in  Liverpool 
this  morning,  that  I  was.  That  ere  young  woman's  woke  up 
from  her  dj-eam  "  (he  lengthened  the  word  inexpressibly) 
"  by  this  time,  that  she  is.  I  had  to  pay  for  my  passage, 
though :"  at  which  recollection  he  swore.  "  That's  money 
gone.  Never  mind  :  there's  worse  gone  with  it.  Ain't  it 
nasty — don't  you  think,  sir — to  get  tired  of  5.  young  woman 
you've  been  keepin'  company  with,  and  have  to  be  her  com- 
panion, whether  you  will,  or  whether  you  won't  ?  She's  sick 
enough  now.  We  travelled  all  night.  I  got  her  on  board  ; 
got  her  to  go  to  her  bed ;  and,  says  I,  I'll  arrange  about  the 
luggage.  I  packs  myself  down  into  a  boat,  and  saw  the  ship 
steam  away  a  good'n.  Hanged  if  I  didn't  catch  myself  singin'. 
And  haven't  touched  a  drop  b'  drink,  nor  will,  till  to-morrow's 
over.  Don't  you  think  '  Daehli's  '  a  very  pretty  name,  sir  ? 
I  run  back  to  her  as  hard  as  rail'  d  carry  me.  She's  had  a 
letter  from  her  sister,  i^ecommending  o'  her  to  marry  me  : — 
*a  noble  man,'  she  calls  me — ha,  ha!  that's  good.  'And 
what  do  yuu  think,  my  dear  ?'  says  I ;  and,  bother  me,  if  I 
can  screw  either  a  compliment  or  a  kiss  out  of  her.  She's 
got  fine  lady  airs  of  her  own.  But  I'm  fond  of  her,  that  I 
am.  Well,  sir,  at  the  chui-ch  door,  after  the  ceremony,  you 
settle  our  business,  honour  bright — that's  it,  en't  it  ?" 

Algernon  nodded.  Sedgett's  talk  always  produced  dis- 
comfort in  his  ingenuous  bosom. 

"  By  the  way,  what  politics  are  you  ?"  he  asked. 
Sedgett  replied,  staring,  that  he  was  a  Tory,  and  Algernon 
nodded  again,  but  with  brows  perturbed  at  the  thought  of 


296  EHODA  PI.EMTNa. 

tliis  rnfTian  being'  of  the  same  political  persuasion  as  him- 
self. 

"Eh?"  cried  Sedirett ;  "I  don't  want  any  of  your  hast- 
iness pledcfes,  though.  You'll  be  at  tlie  door  to-morrrow,  or 
I'll  have  a  I'ow — mind  that.  A  bargain's  a  bargain.  I  like 
the  young  wonum,  but  I  must  have  the  money.  Why  not 
hand  it  over  now  r" 

"  Not  till  the  deed's  done,"  said  Algernon,  very  reasonably. 

Sedgett  studied  his  features,  and  as  a  result  i-emarked  : 
"  You  put  me  up  to  this :  I'll  do  it,  and  trust  you  so  far, 
but  if  I'm  plaj'ed  on,  I  throw  the  young  woman  over  and 
expose  you  out  and  out.     But  you  mean  honourable  ?" 

"  I  do,"  Algernon  said  of  his  meaning. 

Another  knock  sounded  on  the  door.  It  proved  to  be  a 
footman  in  Sir  William's  livery,  bearing  a  letter  from 
Edward  ;  an  amplification  of  the  telegram  : 

"  Dear  Algy, 

"  Stop  it.  I'm  back,  and  have  to  see  my  father.  I  may 
be  down  about*two,  or  three,  or  four,  in  the  morning.  No 
key;  so,  keep  in.  I  want  to  see  you.  My  whole  life  is 
changed.  I  must  see  her.  Did  you  get  my  telegram  ? 
Answer,  by  messenger ;  I  shall  come  to  you  the  moment  my 
father  has  finished  his  lecture. 

"  Yours, 

"E.  B." 

Algernon  told  Sedgett  to  wait  while  he  dressed  in  evening 
uniform,  and  gave  him  a  cigar  to  smoke. 
He  wrote  : 

"  Dear  Ned, 

"  Stop  what  ?  Of  course,  I  suppose  there's  only  ono 
thing,  and  how  can  I  stop  it  ?  What  for  ?  You  ridiculous 
old  boy !  What  a  changeable  old  fellow  you  are! — OfF,  to 
see  what  I  can  do.  After  eleven  o'clock  to-morrow,  you'll 
feel  comfortable. — If  the  Governor  is  sweet,  speak  a  word 
for  the  Old  Broivn;  and  bring  two  dozen  in  a  cab,  if  you 
can.  There's  no  encourage7nent  to  keep  at  honie  in  tins 
place.  Put  that  to  him.  J,  in  your  place,  could  doit.  Tell 
him  it's  a  matter  of  markets.  If  I  get  better  wine  at  hotels, 
I  go  to   hotels,  and  I  spend  twice — ten  times  the  money. 


FATHER  Airo  SON.  297 

And  say,  we  intend  to  make  the  laundress  cook  our  dinners 
in  chambers,  as  a  rule.     Old  B.  an  inducement. 

"  Yours  aff. 

"A.  B." 

This  epistle  he  dispatched  by  the  footman,  and  groaned 
to  think  that  if,  perchance,  the  Old  Brown  Sherry  should 
come,  he  would,  in  all  probability,  barely  di-ink  more  than 
half-a-dozen  bottles  of  that  prime  vintage.  He  and  Sedgett, 
soon  after,  were  driving  down  to  Dahlia's  poor  lodgings  in 
the  West.  On  the  way,  an  idea  struck  him  : — Would  not 
Sedgett  be  a  noisier  claimant  for  the  thousand  than  Edward  ? 
If  he  obeyed  Edward's  direction  and  stopped  the  marriage, 
he  could  hand  back  a  goodly  number  of  hundreds,  and  leave 
it  to  be  supposed  that  he  had  advanced  the  remainder  to 
Sedgett.  How  to  do  it  ?  Sedgett  happened  to  say :  "  If 
you  won't  hand  the  money  now,  I  must  have  it  when  I've 
married  her.  Swear  you'll  be  in  the  vestry  when  we're 
signing.  I  know  all  about  marriages.  You  swear,  or  I  tell 
you,  if  I  find  I'm  cheated,  I  will  throw  the  young  woman 
over  slap." 

Algernon  nodded :  "  I  shall  be  there,"  he  said,  and  thought 
that  he  certainly  would  not.  The  thought  cleared  an 
oppression  in  his  head,  though  it  obscured  the  pretty 
prospect  of  a  colonial  hut  and  horse,  with  Rhoda  cooking 
for  him,  far  from  cares.  He  did  his  best  to  resolve  that  he 
would  stop  the  business,  if  he  could.  But,  if  it  is  permitted 
to  the  fool  to  create  entanglements  and  set  calamity  in 
motion,  to  arrest  its  course  is  the  last  thing  the  Gods  allow 
of  his  doing. 


CHAPTER  XXXIY. 

FATHER  AND  SON. 


In  the  shadowy  library  light,  when  there  was  dawn  out  of 
doors,  Edward  sat  with  his  father,  and  both  were  silent,  for 
Edward  had  opened  his  heart,  and  his  father  had  breathed 
some  of  the  dry  stock  of  wisdom  on  it.     Many  times  Edward 


298  RITODA  PLKMINO. 

rose  fo  go;  and.  Sir  William  signallec"  with  his  fincror  that 
ho  should  stay :  an  impassive  niot'ri:.  iror,  succeeded  by 
speech.  And,  in  truth,  the  baronet  was  revolving  such  a 
problem  as  a  long  career  of  profitable  banking  refreshed  by 
classical  exorcitations  does  not  help  us  to  solve.  There  sat 
the  son  of  his  trust  and  his  pride,  whose  sound  and  equal 
temperament,  whose  precocious  worldly  wit,  whose  precise 
and  bi-oad  intelligence,  had  })een  the  visionary  comfort  of  his 
paternal  days  to  come;  and  his  sou  had  told  him,  reiterating 
it  in  language  special  and  exact  as  that  of  a  Chancery  bar- 
rister unfolding  liis  case  to  the  presiding  judge,  that  ho 
had  deceived  and  wronged  an  undei"-bied  girl  of  the  humbler 
classes ;  and  that,  after  a  term  of  absence  from  her,  he 
had  discovered  her  to  be  a  part  of  his  existence,  and 
designed 

"  You  would  marry  her?"  Sir  William  asked,  though  less 
forcibly  than  if  he  could  have  put  on  a  moral  amazement. 

"  That  is  my  intention,  sii',  Avith  your  permission,"  Edward 
replied  lirmly,  and  his  father  understood  that  he  had  never 
known  this  young  man,  and  dealt  virtually  with  a  stranger 
in  his  son — as  shi-ewd  a  blow  as  the  vanity  which  is  in 
paternal  nature  may  have  to  endui-e. 

He  could  not  fashion  the  Avords,  "  Cerritus  fuit,"  though 
he  thought  the  thing  in  both  tenses  :  Edwaid's  wits  had 
always  been  too  clearly  in  order:  and  of  what  avail  was  it 
to  repeat  great  and  honoured  pi-udential  maxims  to  a  hard- 
headed  fellow,  whoso  choice  was  to  steer  upon  the  rocks  ? 
He  did  remark,  in  an  under-tone  : 

"  The  '  misce  stultitiara  '  seems  to  be  a  piece  of  advice  you 
have  adopted  too  literally.  I  quote  what  you  have  observed 
of  some  one  else." 

"  It  is  possible,  sir,"  said  Edward.  "I  was  not  particularly 
sparing  when  I  sat  in  the  high  seat.  '  Non  eadem  est  jEtas, 
non  mens.'     I  now  think  differently." 

"  I  must  take  your  present  conduct  as  the  fruit  of  your 
premature  sagacity,  I  sup])ose.  liy  the  same  rule,  your 
cousin  Algernon  may  prove  to  be  some  comfort  to  his  father, 
in  the  end." 

"  Let  us  hope  he  Avill,  sir.  Hia  father  will  not  have 
deserved  it  so  well  as  mine." 

"  The  time  is  moi-ning,"  said  Sir  William,  looking  at  his 
watch,  and  bestowing,  in  the  bitterness  of   his  rellections,  a 


FATHER  AND  SON.  299 

hne  of  triumph  on  the  sleep  of  his  brother  upstairs.  '*  Ton 
are  _your  own  master,  Edward.     I  will  detain  you  no  more." 

Edward  shook  his  limbs,  rejoicing*. 

"  You  prepare  for  a  life  of  hard  work,"  Sir  William 
resumed,  not  without  some  instigation  to  sternness  from 
this  display  of  alacrity.  "  I  counsel  you  to  try  the  Colonial 
Bar." 

Edward  read  in  the  first  sentence,  that  his  income  would 
be  restricted ;  and  in  the  second,  that  his  father's  social 
sphere  was  no  long-er  to  be  his. 

"  Exactly,  sir ;  I  have  entertained  that  notion  myself," 
he  said ;  and  his  breast  narrowed  and  his  features  grew 
sharp. 

'•  And,  if  I  may  suggest  such  matters  to  you,  I  would 
advise  you  to  see  very  little  company  for  some  years  to 
come." 

"  There,  sir,  you  only  anticipate  my  previously  formed 
resolution.  With  a  knavery  on  my  conscience,  and  a  giddy- 
pated  girl  on  my  hands,  and  the  doors  of  the  London  world 
open  to  me,  I  should  scarcely  have  been  capable  of  serious 
work.  The  precious  metal,  which  is  Knowledge,  sir,  is  only 
to  be  obtained  by  mining  for  it ;  and  that  excellent  occupa- 
tion necessarily  sends  a  man  out  of  sig'ht  for  a  number  of 
years.     In  the  meantime,  'mea  virtute  me  involve.'  " 

"  You  need  not  stop  short,"  said  his  father,  with  a  sar- 
donic look  for  the  concluding  lines. 

"  The  continuation  is  becoming  in  the  mouth  of  a  hero ; 
but  humbler  persons  must  content  themselves  not  to  boast 
the  patent  fact,  I  think."  Edward  warmed  as  he  spoke. 
"  I  am  ready  to  bear  it.  I  dislike  poverty ;  but,  as  I  say,  I 
am  ready  to  bear  it.  Come,  sir ;  you  did  me  the  honour 
once  to  let  me  talk  to  you  as  a  friend,  with  the  limits  Avhich 
I  have  never  consciously  overstepped  ;  let  me  explain  myself 
plainly  and  simply." 

Sir  William  signified,  "  Pray  speak,"  from  the  arms  of 
his  chair ;  and  Edward,  standing-,  went  on  :  "  After  all,  a 
woman's  devotion  is  worth  having,  when  one  is  not  asked 
for  the  small  change  every  ten  minutes.  I  am  aware  of  the 
philosophic  truth,  that  we  get  nothing  in  life  for  which  we 
don't  pay.  The  point  is,  to  appreciate  what  we  desire ;  and 
so  we  reach  a  level  that  makes  the  payment  less ."     He 


300  KrrnpA  flfmino. 

laucfhcd.  Sir  "Willinm  could  liardlj  k(>op  briclc  tlio  linos  of 
au  ironical  Bniile  ironi  his  li{)s. 

"  This,"  pursued  the  orator,  "  is  not  the  lannfua<,'e  for  the 
Colonial  Har.  I  wish  to  show  jou  that  I  shall  understand 
the  character  of  my  vocation  there.  No,  sir ;  my  deeper 
wish  is  that  you  may  accept  my  view  of  the  sole  course  lelt 
to  a  man  whose  sense  of  honour  is  of  accord  with  the  inclina- 
tion of  Lis  heart,  and  not  in  hostility  to  his  clearer  judge- 
ment.'' 

'•  Extremely  forensic,"  said  Sir  William,  not  displeased  by 
the  promise  of  the  periods. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  need  not  remark  to  you  that  rhetoric,  though 
it  should  fail  to  convey,  does  not  extinguish,  or  imply  the 
absence  of  emotion  in  the  speaker ;  but  rather  tliat  his 
imagination  is  excited  by  his  thome,  and  that  he  addresses 
more  presences  than  such  as  are  visible.  It  is,  like  the 
lioman  mask,  fashioned  for  large  assemblages." 

"  By  a  parity  of  reasoning,  then," — Sir  William  was 
seduced  into  colloquy, — "  an  eternal  broad  grin  is  not,  in  the 
instance  of  a  dualogue,  good  comedy." 

"  It  may  hide  profound  grief."  Edwai-d  made  his  eyes 
flash.  "I  find  I  can  laugh;  it  Avould  be  ditlicult  for  me  to 
smile.  Sir,  I  pray  that  you  will  listen  to  me  seriously, 
though  my  language  is  not  of  a  kind  to  make  you  think  me 
absolutely  earnest  in  what  I  say,  unless  you  know  me." 

"  Which,  I  must  protest,  I  certainly  do  not,"  interposed 
Sir  William. 

"  I  will  do  my  best  to  instruct  you,  sir.  Until  recently,  I 
have  not  known  myself.  I  met  this  girl.  She  trusted  her- 
self to  me.  You  are  aware  that  I  know  a  little  of  men  and 
of  women  ;  and  when  I  tell  you  that  I  respect  her  now  even 
moi'e  than  I  did  at  first — much  more — so  thoroughly,  that 
I  would  now  put  my  honour  in  her  hands,  by  the  counsel  of 
mv  experience,  as  she,  proui[)tcd  by  her  instinct  and  her 
faith  in  me,  confided  hers  to  mine, — perhaps,  even  if  you 
persist  in  accusing  me  of  rashness,  you  will  allow  that  she 
must  be  in  the  possession  of  singularly  feminine  and  esti- 
7nable  qualities.  I  deceived  her.  My  object  in  doing  so 
Avas  to  spare  you.  Those  conseipiences  followed  Avhich  can 
hardly  fail  to  ensue,  when,  of  two  living  together,  the 
■woman  is  at  a  disadvantage,  and  eats  hei-  heart  without 
complaiuing.      I  could  have  borne  a  shrewish  to'.igue  better, 


FATHER  AND  SON.  301 

possibly  because  I  could  have  answered  it  better.  It  is 
-worse  to  see  a  pale  sad  face  with  a  smile  of  unalterable 
tenderness.     The  very  sweetness  becomes  repugnant." 

"  As  little  boys  requiring  much  medicine  have  anticipated 
you  by  noting  in  this  world,"  observed  Sir  William. 

"I  thank  you  for  the  illustration."  Edward  bowed,  but 
he  smarted.  "  A  man  so  situated  lives  with  the  ghost  of 
his  conscience." 

"  A  doubtful  figure  of  speech,"  Sir  William  broke  in. 
"  I  think  you  should  establish  the  personality  before  you 
attempt  to  give  a  feature  to  the  essence.     Bat,  continue." 

Edward  saw  that  by  forfeiting  simplicity,  in  order  to 
catch  his  father's  peculiar  cast  of  mind,  he  had  left  him  cold 
and  in  doubt  as  to  the  existence  of  the  pow^erful  impulse  by 
which  he  was  animated.  It  is  a  prime  error  in  the  orator 
not  to  seize  the  emotions  and  subdue  the  humanity  of  his 
hearers  first.  Edward  perceived  his  mistake.  He  had, 
however,  done  well  in  making  a  show  of  the  unabated  vigour 
of  his  wits.  Contempt  did  not  dwell  in  the  baronet's  tone. 
On  the  contrary,  they  talked  and  fenced,  and  tripped  one 
another  as  of  old  ;  and,  considering  the  breach  he  had  been 
compelled  to  explode  between  his  father  and  himself,  Edward 
understood  that  this  was  a  real  gain. 

He  resumed:  "All  figures  of  speech  must  be  inade- 
quate  " 

"  Ah,  pardon  me,"  said  Sir  William,  pertinaciously  ;  "  the 
figure  I  alluded  to  was  not  inadequate.  A  soap-bubble  is 
not  inadequate." 

"  Plainly,  sir,  in  God's  name,  hear  me  out,"  cried  Edward. 
"  She — what  shall  I  call  her  ?  my  mistress,  my  sweetheart, 
if  you  like — let  the  name  be  anything — '  wife  '  it  should  have 
been,  and  shall  be — I  left  her,  and  have  left  her  and  have 
not  looked  on  her  for  many  months.  I  thought  I  was  tired 
of  her — I  was  under  odd  influences — witchcraft,  it  seems. 
I  could  believe  in  witchcraft  now.  Brutal  selfishness  is  the 
phrase  for  my  conduct.  I  have  found  out  my  villany.  I  have 
not  done  a  day's  sensible  work,  or  had  a  single  clear  thought, 
since  I  parted  from  her.  She  has  had  brain-fever.  She  has 
been  in  the  hospital.  She  is  now  prostrate  with  misery. 
While  she  suffered,  I — I  can't  lookback  on  myself.  If  I  had 
to  plead  before  you  for  more  than  manly  consideration,  I 
could  touch  you.     I  am  my  own  master,  and  am  ready  to 


302  RITODA  FLEMINQ. 

Hubsist  by  my  own  efforts  ;  there  is  no  necessity  for  me  to 
do  more  than  say  I  al)ide  by  the  choice  I  make,  and  my  own 
actions.  In  deciding;  to  marry  her,  I  do  a  p^ood  tiling — I  do 
a  jnst  thing.  I  will  prove  to  you  that  I  have  done  a  wise 
thing. 

"Let  me  call  to  your  recollection  what  you  did  me  the 
honour  to  niiiark  of  my  letters  from  Italy.  Those  were 
written  with  hei-  by  my  side.  Every  other  woman  vexes  me. 
This  one  alone  gives  me  peace,  and  nerve  to  work.  If  I  did 
not  desire  to  work,  should  I  venture  to  run  the  chances  of  an 
offence  to  you  ?  Your  girls  of  society  are  tasteless  to  me 
And  they  dont  make  wives  to  working  barristers.  No,  noi 
to  working  Members. 

"They  are  very  ornamental  and  excellent,  and,  as  I  think 
you  would  call  them,  accomplished.  All  England  would 
leap  to  arms  to  defend  their  incontestible  supei-iority  to  their 
mothers  and  their  duties.  I  have  not  the  wish  to  stand 
opj)osed  to  my  countrymen  on  any  question,  although  I  go 
to  other  shores,  and  may  be  called  upon  to  make  capital  out 
of  opposition.  They  are  admii-able  young  persons,  no  doubt. 
I  do  not  offer  you  a  drab  for  your  daughter-in-law,  sLr.  If  I 
rise,  she  will  be  equal  to  my  station.  She  has  the  manners 
of  a  lady ; — a  lady,  I  say  ;  not  of  the  modern  young  lady ; 
with  whom,  I  am  happy  to  think,  she  does  not  come  into 
competition.  She  has  not  been  sedulously  trained  to  pull 
her  way,  when  she  is  to  go  into  harness  with  a  yokefellow. 

"  But  I  am  laying  myself  open  to  the  charge  of  feeling  my 
position  weak,  seeing  that  I  abuse  the  contrary  one.  Think 
what  you  will  of  me,  sir,  you  will  know  that  I  have  obeyed 
my  best  instinct  and  my  soundest  judgement  in  this  matter ; 
I  need  not  be  taught,  that  if  it  is  my  destiny  to  leave  England 
I  lose  the  association  with  him  who  must  ever  be  my  dearest 
friend.  And  few  young  men  can  say  as  much  of  one  standing 
in  the  relation  of  father." 

With  this,  Edward  finished ;  not  entirely  to  his  satisfac- 
tion ;  for  he  had  spoken  with  too  distinct  a  sincerity  to  please 
his  own  ci-itieal  taste,  which  had  been  educated  to  delight  in 
acute  antithesis  and  culminating  sentences — the  grand  Bis- 
cayan  billows  of  rhetorical  utterance,  in  comparison  where- 
witli  his  talk  was  like  the  little  chojiping  waves  of  a  wind- 
blown lake.  But  he  had,  as  he  could  see,  produced  an  im- 
pression.    His  father  stood  up. 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE.  303 

''We  shall  be  always  friends,  I  hope,"  Sir  "William  said. 
**  As  regards  a  provision  for  you,  suitable  to  your  estate,  that 
will  be  arranged.  You  must  have  what  comforts  you  have 
been  taught  to  look  to.  At  the  same  time,  I  claim  a  personal 
freedom  for  my  own  actions." 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  said  Edward,  not  conceiving  any  new 
development  in  these. 

"  You  have  an  esteem  for  Mrs.  Lovell,  have  you  not  ?" 

Edward  flushed.     "  I  should  have  a  very  perfect  esteem  for 

her,  if "  he  laughed  slightly — "  you  will  think  I  want 

everybody  to  be  married  and  in  the  traces  now ;  she  will 
never  be  manageable  till  she  is  married." 

"I  am  also  of  thab  opinion,"  said  Sir  William.  "I  will 
detain  you  no  longer.  It  is  a  quarter  to  five  in  the  morning. 
You  will  sleep  here,  of  course." 

"  No,  I  must  go  to  the  Temple.  By  the  way,  Algy  prefers 
a  petition  for  Sherry.  He  is  beginning  to  discern  good  wine 
from  bad,  which  may  be  a  hopeful  augury." 

"  I  will  order  Holmes  to  send  some  down  to  him  when  he 
has  done  a  week's  real  duty  at  the  Bank." 

"•  Sooner  or  later,  then,     Good  morning,  sir." 

"  Good  morning."     Sir  William  shook  his  son's  hand. 

A  minute  after,  Edward  had  quitted  the  house.  "  That's 
over  !"  he  said,  sniffing  the  morning  air  gratefully,  and  eyeing 
certain  tinted  wisps  of  cloud  that  were  in  a  line  of  the  iresh. 
blue  sky. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE     NIGHT     BEFORE. 

A  SHY  and  humble  entreaty  had  been  sent  by  Dahlia 
through  Robert  to  Rhoda,  saying  that  she  wished  not  to  be 
seen  until  the  ceremony  was  at  an  end ;  but  Rhoda  had 
become  mentally  stern  toward  her  sister,  and  as  much  to 
uphold  her  in  the  cleansing  step  she  was  about  to  take,  as  in 
the  desire  to  have  the  dear  lost  head  upon  her  bosom,  she 
disregarded  Dahlia's  foolish  prayer,  and  found  it  was  well 
that  she  had  done  so  ;  for,  to  her  great  amazement,  Dahlia, 
worn,  shorn,  sickened,   and  reduced  to   be  a  mark  for  the 


304  EnODA  FLEMINQ. 

scorn  of  the  cowardice  which  is  in  the  world,  thronj^h  the 
Roltishncss  of  a  lyinp^  man,  loved  tho  man  still,  and  wavoi-cd, 
or  ratlicr  shrank  with  a  pitil'iil  tleshly  terror  from  tho  noble 
husband  who  would  wipe  the  spot  of  shame  from  her 
forehead. 

When,  after  their  lone:  separation,  tho  sisters  met,  Dahlia  was 
mistress  of  herself,  and  pi-onouneed  Rlmda's  name  softly,  as 
she  moved  up  ty  kiss  her.    llhoda  could  not  speak.    Oppressed 
by  the  stranueness  of  the  white  face  whicli  had  passed  throuj^h 
tire,  she  f?ave  a  mute  kiss  and  a  single  groan,  while  Dahlia 
gently  caressed  her  on  the  shoulder.     The  frail  touch  of  hei 
hand  was  hai-der  to  bear  than  the  dreary  division  had  been, 
and  seemed  not  so  real  as  many  a  dream  of  it.     Rhoda  sat 
by  her,  overcome  by  the  awfulness   of  an   actual    sorrow, 
never  imagined  closely,  though  she  had  conjured  up  vague 
pictures  of  Dahlia's  face.     She  had  imagined  agony,  tears, 
despair,  but  not  the  spectral  change,  the  burnt-out  look.     It 
■was  a  face  like  a  crystal  lamp  in  which  the  flame  has  died. 
The  ghastly  little  skull-caji  showed  forth  its  wanness  rigidly. 
Khoda  wondered  to  hear  her  talk  simply  of  home  and  the 
old  life.     At  each  question,  the  then  and  the  now  struck  her 
spirit  with  a  lightning  flash  of  opposing  scenes.     But  the 
talk  deepened.     Dahlia's  martyrdom  was  near,   and   their 
tongues  were  hurried  into  plain  converse  of  the  hour,  and 
then  Dahlia  faltered  and  huddled  herself  up  like  a  creature 
swept  by  the  torrent;  Rhoda  learnt  that,  instead  of  hate  or 
loatliing  of  the  devilish  man   who  had  deceived   her,  love 
survived.    Upon  Dahlia's  lips  it  was  compassion  and  forgive- 
ness ;  but   Rhoda,  in  her  contempt  for  the  word,  called  it 
love.  Dahlia  submitted  gladly  to  the  torture  of  interrogation  •, 
"Do  you,  can  you  care  for  him  still?"  and  sighed  in  shame 
and  fear  of  her  sister,  not  daring  to  say  she  thought  her 
harsh,  not  daring  to  plead  for  escape,  as  she  had  done  with 
Robert. 

"  Why  is  there  no  place  for  the  unhappy,  who  do  not  wish 
to  live,  and  cannot  die  ?"  she  moaned. 

And  Rhoda  cruelly  fixed  her  to  the  marriage,  making  it 
seem  irrevocable,  and  barring  all  the  faint  lights  to  the  free 
outer  world,  by  praise  of  her — passionate  praise  of  her — 
when  she  confessed  that,  half  inanimate  after  her  recovery 
from  the  fever,  and  in  the  hope  that  she  might  thereby  show 
herself  to  her  father,  she  had  consented  to  devote  her  life  to 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE.  305 

the  only  creature  who  was  then  neax'  her  to  be  kind  to  her. 
Rhoda  made  her  relate  how  this  man  had  seen  her  first,  and 
how,  by  untiring  diligence,  he  had  followed  her  up  and  found 
her.  "He — /le  must  love  you,"  said  Rhoda;  and  in  propor- 
tion as  she  grew  more  conscious  of  her  sister's  weakness, 
and  with  every  access  of  tenderness  toward  her,  she  felt  that 
Dahlia  must  be  thought  for  very  much  as  if  she  were  a 
child. 

Dahlia  tried  to  float  out  some  fretting  words  for  mercy, 
OQ  one  or  other  of  her  heavy  breathings  ;  but  her  brain  was 
under  lead.  She  had  a  thirst  for  Rhoda's  praise  in  her 
desolation ;  it  was  sweet,  though  the  price  of  it  was  her 
doing  an  abhorred  thing.  Abhorred  ?  She  did  not  realize 
the  consequences  of  the  act,  or  strengtJi  would  have  come 
to  her  to  wrestle  with  the  coil :  a  stir  of  her  blood  would 
have  endued  her  with  womanly  counsel  and  womanly  frenzy ; 
nor  caald  Rhoda  have  opposed  any  real  vehemence  of  dis- 
taste to  the  union  on  Dahlia's  part.  But  Dahlia's  blood  was 
frozen,  her  brain  was  under  lead.  She  clung  to  the  poor 
delight  in  her  sister's  praise,  and  shuddered  and  thirsted. 
She  caught  at  the  minutes,  and  saw  them  slip  from  her. 
All  the  health  of  her  thoughts  went  to  establish  a  sort  of 
blind  belief  that  God,  having  punished  her  enough,  would 
not  permit  a  second  great  misery  to  befall  her.  She  expected 
a  sudden  intervention,  even  though  at  the  altar.  She  argued 
to  herself  that  misery,  which  follows  sin,  cannot  surely  afflict 
US  further  when  Ave  are  penitent,  and  seek  to  do  right :  her 
thought  being  that,  perchance,  if  she  refrained  from  striving 
against  the  current,  and  if  she  suffered  her  body  to  be  borne 
along,  God  would  be  the  more  merciful.  With  the  small 
cunning  of  an  enfeebled  spirit,  she  put  on  a  mute  submissive- 
ness,  and  deceived  herself  by  it  sufficiently  to  let  the  minates 
pass  with  a  lessened  horror  and  alarm. 

This  was  in  the  first  quarter  of  the  night.  The  dawn  was 
wearing  near.  Sedgett  had  been  seen  by  Rhoda;  a  quiet 
interview  ;  a  few  words  on  either  side,  attention  paid  to  theni 
by  neither.  But  the  girl  doated  on  his  ugliness ;  she  took 
it  for  plain  proof  of  his  worthiness ;  proof  too  that  her 
sister  must  needs  have  seen  the  latter  very  distinctly,  or  else 
she  could  not  have  submitted. 

Dahlia  looked  at  the  window-blinds  and  at  the  candle- 
light.    The  little  which  had  been  spoken  between  her  and 


306  RnODA  FLEMING. 

her  sister  in  such  a  cliasiu  of  time,  gave  a  terrible  swiftness 
to  the  hours.  ILill:  shrieking,  she  di'opped  lier  head  in 
Rhoda's  lap.  Rhoda,  thinking  that  ■with  this  demonstration 
she  renounced  the  project  linully,  pi-eparcd  <o  say  what  she 
had  to  say,  and  to  yield.  But,  as  was  natur.al  altera  j)ai'o.\ysm 
of  weakness,  Dahlia's  frenzy  left  no  courage  behind  it. 

Dahlia  said,  as  she  swept  her  brows,  "  I  am  still  subject 
to  nci'vous  attacks." 

"  They  will  soon  leave  you,"  said  Rhoda,  nursing  her  hand. 

Dalilia  contracted  her  lips.  "Is  father  very  unforgiving 
to  women  ?" 

"  Poor  father!"  Rhoda  interjected  for  answer,  and  Dahlia's 
frame  was  taken  with  a  convulsion. 

"  Where  shall  I  see  him  to-morrow  ?"  she  asked  ;  and, 
glancing  from  the  beamlcss  candle  to  the  window-blinds  : 
"  Oh!  it's  day.  Why  didn't  I  sleep  !  It's  day  !  Where  am 
I  to  see  him  ?" 

"  At  Robert's  lodgings.     We  all  go  there." 

*'  We  all  go  ? — he  goes  ?" 

"  Your  husband  will  lead  you  there." 

"My  heaven  !  my  heaven  !  I  wish  you  had  kno^Ti  what 
this  is,  a  little — just  a  little." 

"  I  do  know  that  it  is  a  good  and  precious  thing  to  do 
right,"  said  Rhoda. 

"  If  you  had  only  had  an  affection,  dear!  Oh !  how  ungrate- 
ful I  am  to  you." 

"  It  is  only,  darling,  that  I  seem  unkind  to  you"  said 
Rhoda. 

"  You  think  I  must  do  this  ?     Must  ?     Why  ?" 

"  Why  ?"  Rhoda  pressed  her  fingers.  "  Why,  when  you 
were  ill,  did  you  not  write  to  me,  that  I  might  have  come  to 
you?" 

"I  was  ashamed,"  said  Dahlia. 

"You  .shall  not  be  ashamed  any  more,  my  sister." 

Dahlia  sei/cd  the  window-blind  with  her  trembling  finger- 
tips, and  looked  out  on  the  day.  As  if  it  had  smitten  her 
eyeballs,  she  cnvei-ed  her  face,  giving  dry  sobs. 

"  Oh  !  I  wish — I  wish  you  had  known  what  this  is.  Must 
]  do  it  ?  His  face  !  Dear,  I  am  veiy  sorry  to  distress  j'ou. 
Must  I  do  it?  The  doctor  says  I  am  so  strong  that  nothing 
■will  break  in  me,  and  that  I  must  live,  if  I  am  not  killed. 


EDWARD  MEETS  HIS  MATCH.  307 

But,  if  I  might  only  be  a  servant  in  father's  hoase — I  wonld 
give  all  my  love  to  a  little  bed  of  flowers." 

"  Father  has  no  home  now,"  said  Rhoda. 

"  I  know — I  know.  I  am  ready.  I  will  submit,  and  then 
father  will  not  be  ashamed  to  remain  at  the  Farm.  I  am 
ready.  Dear,  I  am  ready.  Rhoda,  I  am  ready.  It  is  not 
much."  She  blew  the  candle  out.  "  See.  No  one  will  do 
that  for  me.  We  are  not  to  live  for  ourselves.  I  have  done 
wrong,  and  I  am  going  to  be  humble ;  yes,  I  am.  I  never 
was  when  I  was  hapjiy,  and  that  proves  I  had  no  right  to  be 
happy.  All  I  ask  is  for  another  night  with  you.  Why  did 
we  not  lie  down  together  and  sleep  ?  We  can't  sleep  new — 
it's  day." 

"  Come  and  lie  down  with  me  for  a  few  hours,  my  darling," 
said  Rhoda. 

While  she  was  speaking.  Dahlia  drew  the  window-blind 
aside,  to  look  out  once  more  upon  the  vacant,  inexplicable 
daylight,  and  looked,  and  then  her  head  bent  like  the  first 
thrust  forward  of  a  hawk's  sighting  quarry  ;  she  spun  round, 
her  raised  ai-ms  making  a  cramped,  clapping  motion. 

"  He  is  there." 


CHAPTER  XXXYI. 


EDWAED    MEETS    HIS    MATCH. 


At  once  Rhoda  perceived  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  act. 
The  name  of  him  who  stood  in  the  street  below  was  written 
on  her  sister's  face.  She  started  to  her  side,  got  possession 
of  her  hands,  murmuring : — 

''  Come  with  me.  You  are  to  come  wdth  me.  Don't  speak. 
I  know.  I  will  go  down.  Yes  ;  you  are  to  obey,  and  do  what 
I  tell  you." 

Dahlia's  mouth  opened,  but  like  a  child  when  it  is  warned 
not  to  cry,  she  uttered  a  faint  inward  wailing,  lost  her  ideas, 
and  was  passive  in  a  shuddering  fit. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  P"  she  said  supplicatingly,  as  Rhoda  led 
her  to  her  bedi'oom. 

x2 


308  RFTODA  FLEMING. 

"  Rest  here.  Be  perfectly  quiet.  Trust  everything  to  me. 
I  am  your  sister." 

Leaving  her  under  the  spell  of  coldly-spoken  words,  Rhoda 
locked  the  door  on  her.  She  was  herself  in  gi-cat  agitation, 
but  nerved  by  deeper  anger  there  was  no  faltering  in  her 
movements.  She  went  to  the  glass  a  minute,  as  she  tied  her 
bonnet-strings  under  her  chin,  and  pinned  her  shawl.  A 
night's  vigil  had  not  chased  the  bloom  from  her  cheek,  oi 
the  swimming  histre  from  her  dark  eyes.  Content  that  her 
aspect  should  be  seemly,  she  ran  down  the  stairs,  unfastened 
the  bolts,  and  Avithout  hesitation  closed  the  door  behind  her. 
At  the  same  instant,  a  gentleman  ci'ossed  the  road.  He 
asked  whether  Mrs.  Ayrton  lived  in  that  house  ?  Rhoda's 
vision  danced  across  his  features,  but  she  knew  him  un- 
erringly to  be  the  ci-uel  enemy. 

"  My  sister,  Dahlia  Fleming,  lives  there,"  she  said. 

*'  Then,  you  are  Rhoda  ?" 

*'  My  name  is  Rhoda." 

"  Mine — I  fear  it  will  not  give  you  pleasure  to  hear  it — ia 
Edward  Blancove.    I  returned  late  last  night  from  abroad." 

She  walked  to  a  distance,  out  of  hearing  and  out  of  sight 
of  the  house,  and  he  silently  followed.  The  streets  were 
empty,  save  for  the  solitary  footing  of  an  early  workman 
going  to  his  labour. 

She  stopped,  and  he  said,  "I  hope  your  sister  is  well." 

"  She  is  quite  well." 

*'  Thank  heaven  for  that !     I  heard  of  some  illness." 

*'  She  has  quite  recovered." 

"  Did  she — tell  me  the  truth — did  she  get  a  letter  that  I 
sent  two  days  ago,  to  her  ?  It  was  addi-essed  to  '  Miss 
Fleming,  Wrexby,  Kent,  England.'     Did  it  reach  her  ?" 

"  I  have  not  seen  it." 

*'  I  wrote,"  said  Edward. 

His  scrutinv  of  her  features  was  not  reassuring  to  him. 
But  he  had  a  side-thought,  prompted  by  admiration  of  her 
perfect  build  of  figure,  her  succinct  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, and  her  equable  manner  of  speech  :  to  the  effect, 
that  the  true  English  yeomanry  can  breed  consummate 
women.  Perhaps — who  knows  ?  even  resolute  human  nature  is 
the  stronger  for  an  added  knot — it  approved  the  resolution  he 
had  foiiued,  or  stamped  with  a  justitication  the  series  of  wild 


EDWAED  MEETS  HIS  MATCH.  309 

impulses,  fhe  remorse,  and  tte  returned  tenderness  aaid  man- 
liness which  had  brought  him  to  that  spot. 
"  You  know  me,  do  you  not  ?"  he  said. 
"  Tes,"  she  answered  shortly. 
*'  I  wish  to  see  Dahlia." 
*'  Ton  cannot." 

*'  Xot  immediately,  of  course.  But  when  she  has  risen — 
later  in  the  morning.  If  she  has  received  my  letter,  she 
will,  she  must  see  me." 

"  'No,  not  later ;  not  at  all,"  said  Rhoda. 
"  Xot  at  all  ?     Why  not  ?" 

Rhoda  controlled  the  surging  of  her  blood  for  a  vehement 
reply ;  saying  simply,  "  You  will  not  see  her." 
"  My  child,  I  must." 

"  I  am  not  a  child,  and  I  say  what  I  mean." 
"  But  why  am  I  not  to  see  her  ?     Do  you  pretend  that  it 
is  her  wish  not  to  see  me  P   You  can't.    I  know  her  perfectly. 
She  is  gentleness  itself." 

"Yes;  you  know  that,"  said  Rhoda,  with  a  level  flash  of 
her  eyes,  and  confronting  him  in  a  way  so  rarely  distinguish- 
ing girls  of  her  class,  that  he  began  to  wonder  and  to  ache 
with  an  apprehension. 

"  She  has  not  changed  ?  Rhoda — for  we  used  to  talk  of 
you  so  often !  You  will  think  better  of  me,  by-and-by. 
ISTatm-ally  enough,  you  detest  me  at  present.  I  have  been  a 
brute.  I  can't  explain  it,  and  I  don't  excuse  myself.  I  state 
the  fact  to  you — her  sister.  My  desire  is  to  make  up  for  the 
past.  "Will  you  take  a  message  to  her  from  me  ?" 
"  I  will  not." 

"  You  are  particularly  positive." 
Remarks  touching  herself  Rhoda  passed  by. 
"  Why  are  you  so  decided  ?"  he  said  more  urgently.  "  I 
know  I  have  deeply  offended  and  hurt  you.  I  wish,  and 
intend  to  repair  the  wrong  to  the  utmost  of  my  power. 
Sui-ely  it's  mere  silly  vindictiveness  on  your  part  to  seek  to 
thwart  me.  Go  to  her ;  say  I  am  here.  At  all  events,  let  it 
be  her  choice  not  to  see  me,  if  I  am  to  be  rejected  at  the 
door.  She  can't  have  had  my  letter.  Will  you  do  that 
much  ?" 

"  She  knows  that  you  are  here ;  she  has  seen  you." 
"  Has  seen  me  ?"     Edward  drew  in  his  breath  shai-ply, 
**  Well  ?  and  she  sends  you  out  to  me  ?" 


310  RnODA  FLEMINO. 

Rliofia  did  not  answor.  Slie  was  strongly  tempted  to  belie 
Dahlia's  frame  of  mind. 

'•  She  does  send  you  to  speak  to  me,"  Edward  insisted. 

"  She  knows  that  I  have  come." 

"  And  you  -will  nut  take  one  message  in?" 

"  I  will  take  no  message  from  you." 

"  You  hate  me,  do  you  not  ?" 

Again  she  control  led  the  violent  shock  of  her  heart  to  give 
him  hard  speech.     He  went  on : — 

"  Whether  you  hate  me  or  not  is  beside  the  matter.  It 
lies  between  Dahlia  and  me.  I  will  see  her.  When  1  deler- 
mine,  I  allow  of  no  obstacles,  not  even  of  wrong-headed 
girls.     First,  let  me  ask,  is  your  father  in  London  ?" 

Ixhoda  threw  a  masculine  meaning  into  her  eyes. 

"  Do  not  come  before  him,  I  advise  you." 

"  If,"  said  Edward,  with  almost  womanly  softness,  "  you 
could  know  what  I  have  passed  through  in  the  last  eight- 
and-forty  hours,  you  would  understand  that  I  am  equal  to 
any  meeting ;  though,  to  speak  truth,  I  would  rather  not  see 
him  until  I  have  done  what  I  mean  to  do.  Will  you  be  per- 
suaded ?  Do  you  suppose  that  I  have  ceased  to  love  your 
sister  ?" 

This,  her  execrated  word,  coming  from  his  mouth,  van- 
quished her  self-possession. 

"Are  you  cold  ?"  he  said,  seeing  the  ripple  of  a  trembling 
run  over  her. 

"  I  am  not  cold.  I  cannot  remain  here."  Rhoda  tight- 
ened her  intertwisting  fingers  across  under  her  bosom. 
"  Don't  try  to  kill  my  sister  outright.  She's  the  ghost  of 
what  she  was.  Be  so  good  as  to  go.  She  will  soon  be  out 
of  your  reach.  You  will  have  to  kill  me  first,  if  you  get 
near  her.  Never!  you  never  shall.  You  have  lied  to  her 
— brought  disgrace  on  her  poor  head.  We  poor  people  rend 
our  Bil)Ios,  and  find  nothing  that  excuses  you.  You  are  not 
punished,  because  there  is  no  young  man  in  our  family. 
Go." 

Edward  gazed  at  her  for  some  time.  "  Well,  I've  deserved 
worse,"  he  said,  not  sorry,  now  that  he  saw  an  op])(incnt 
in  hei-,  that  she  should  waste  her  concentrated  antagonisra 
in  this  fashion,  and  rejoiced  by  the  testimony  it  gave  him 
that  ho  was  cei-tainly  not  too  late. 

"  You  know,  Khoda,  she  loves  me." 


EDWAED  MEETS  HIS  MATCH.  31  i 

"  If  she  does,  let  her  pray  to  God  on  her  knees." 

"  My  good  creature,  be  reasonable.  Vihj  am  I  here  ?  To 
harm  her  ?  You  take  me  for  a  kind  of  monster.  You  look 
at  me  very  much,  let  me  say,  like  a  bristling  cat.  Here  are 
the  streets  getting  full  of  people,  and  you  ought  not  to  be 
seen.  Go  to  Dahlia.  Tell  her  I  am  here.  Tell  her  I  am 
come  to  claim  her  for  good,  and  that  her  troubles  are  over. 
This  is  a  moment  to  use  your  reason.  Will  you  do  what  I 
ask?" 

•'  I  would  cut  my  tongue  out,  if  it  did  you  a  service,"  said 
Rhoda. 

"  Citoyenne  Corday,"  thought  Edward,  and  observed : 
"  Then  I  will  dispense  with  your  assistance." 

He  moved  in  the  direction  of  the  house.  Rhoda  swiftly 
outstripped  him.  They  reached  the  gates  together.  She 
threw  herself  in  the  gateway.  He  attempted  to  parley,  but 
she  was  dumb  to  it. 

"  I  allow  nothing  to  stand  between  her  and  me,"  he  said, 
and  seized  her  arm.  She  glanced  hurriedly  to  right  and 
left.  At  that  moment  Robert  appeared  round  a  corner  of 
the  street.  He  made  his  voice  heard,  and,  coming  up  at 
double  quick,  caught  Edward  Blancove  by  the  collar,  swing- 
ing him  oif.  Rhoda,  with  a  sign,  tempered  him  to  mute- 
ness, and  the  thi'ee  eyed  one  another. 

"  It's  you,"  said  Robert,  and,  understanding  immediately 
the  tactics  desired  by  Rhoda,  requested  Edward  to  move  a 
step  or  two  away  in  his  company. 

Edward  settled  the  disposition  of  his  coat-collar,  as  a 
formula  wherewith  to  regain  composure  of  mind,  and  passed 
along  beside  Robert,  Rhoda  following, 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?"  said  Robert  sternly. 

Edward's  darker  nature  struggled  for  ascendancy  within 
him.  It  was  this  man's  violence  at  Fairly  which  had 
sickened  him,  and  irritated  him  against  Dahlia,  and  insti- 
gated him,  as  he  remembered  well,  more  than  Mrs.  Lovell's 
witcheries,  to  the  abhorrent  scheme  to  be  quit  of  her,  and 
rid  of  all  botheration,  at  any  cost. 

"  You're  in  some  conspiracy  to  do  her  mischief,  all  of 
you,"  he  cried. 

"  If  you  mean  Dahlia  Fleming,"  said  Robert,  "  it  'd  be 
a  base  creature  that  would  think  of  doing  harm  to  her 
now." 


312  rnoBA  plkmfno. 

Ho  had  a  man's  porcoiition  tliat  Edward  would  hardly 
have  hocn  found  in  Dulilia's  neighbourhood  with  evil  inten- 
tions at  this  moment,  though  it  was  a  thing  im])ossible  to 
guess.  Generous  himself,  he  leaned  to  the  more  geuei"0U8 
view. 

"  I  think  your  name  is  Eccles,"  said  Edward.  "  ^Ir. 
Eccles,  my  position  here  is  a  very  sad  one.  But  first,  let  me 
acknowledge  that  I  have  done  you  personally  a  wrong.  I 
am  ready  to  bear  the  burden  of  your  reproaches,  or  what 
you  will.  All  that  I  beg  is,  that  you  will  do  me  the  favour 
to  grant  me  five  minutes  in  private.     It  is  imperative." 

Rhoda  burst  in — "No,  Robert!"  But  Robert  said,  "It  is 
a  reasonable  request ;"  and,  in  spite  of  her  angry  eyes,  he 
•waved  her  back,  and  walked  apart  with  Edward. 

She  stood  watching  them,  striving  to  divine  their  speech 
by  their  gestures,  and  letting  her  savage  mood  interpret  the 
possil)le  utterances.  It  went  ill  with  Robert  in  her  heart 
that  he  did  not  suddenly  grapple  and  trample  the  man,  and 
so  break  away  from  him.  She  was  outraged  to  see  Robert's 
listening  posture.  "Lies!  lies!"  she  said  to  herself,  "and 
he  doesn't  know  them  to  be  lies."  The  window-blinds  in 
Dahlia's  sitting-room  continued  undisturbed ;  but  she  feared 
the  agency  of  the  servant  of  the  house  in  helping  to  release 
her  sister.  Time  was  flowing  to  dangerous  strands.  At 
last  Robert  turned  back  singly.  Rhoda  fortified  her  soul  to 
resist. 

"  He  has  fooled  you,"  she  murmured,  inaudibly,  before 
he  spoke. 

"  Perhaps,  Rhoda,  we  ought  not  to  stand  in  his  "way.  He 
"wishes  to  do  what  a  man  can  do  in  his  case.  So  he  tells  me, 
and  I'm  bound  not  to  disbelieve  him.  He  saj'S  he  rejients — 
says  the  word  ;  and  gentlemen  seem  to  mean  it  when  they  use 
it.  I  respect  the  word,  and  them  when  they're  up  to  that 
word.  He  wi-ote  to  her  that  he  could  not  marry  her,  and  it 
did  the  mischief,  and  may  well  be  repented  of  ;  but  he  wishes 
to  be  forgiven  and  make  amends — well,  such  as  he  can. 
He's  been  abroad,  and  only  received  Dahlia's  letters  within 
the  last  two  or  three  days.  He  seems  to  love  her,  and  to  be 
heartily  wretched.  Just  hear  me  out ;  you'll  decide ;  but 
pray,  pray  don't  be  rash.  He  wishes  to  marry  her  ;  says  he 
has  spoken  to  his  father  this  very  night ;  came  straight  over 
from  Fiance,  after  he  had  read  her  letters.     He  says — and 


EDWARD  MEETS  HIS  MATCH.  313 

it  seems  fair — he  only  asks  to  see  Dahlia  for  two  minutes. 
If  she  bids  him  go,  he  goes.  He's  not  a  friend  of  mine,  as 
I  could  prove  to  you  ;  but  I  do  think  he  ought  to  see  her. 
He  says  he  looks  on  her  as  his  wife ;  always  meant  her  to 
be  his  wife,  but  things  were  against  him.  when  he  wrote  that 
letter.  Well,  he  says  so  ;  and  it's  true  that  gentlemen  are 
situated — they  can't  always,  or  think  they  can't,  behave 
quite  like  honest  men.  They've  got  a  hundred  things  to 
consider  for  our  one.  That's  my  experience,  and  I  know 
something  of  the  best  among  'em.  The  question  is  about 
this  poor  young  fellow  who's  to  marry  her  to-day.  ]\Ir. 
Blancove  talks  of  giving  him  a  handsome  sum — a  thousand 
pounds — and  making  him  comfortable " 

"  There  !"  Rhoda  exclaimed,  with  a  lightning  face.     "  Tou 

don't  see  what  he  is,  after  that  ?     Oh  ! "     She  paused, 

revolted. 

"  Will  you  let  me  run  off  to  the  young  man,  wherever  he's 
to  be  found,  and  put  the  case  to  him — that  is,  from  Dahlia  ? 
And  you  know  she  doesn't  like  the  marriage  overmuch, 
Rhoda.  Perhaps  he  may  think  differently  when  he  comes 
to  hear  of  things.  As  to  Mr.  Blancove,  men  change  and 
change  when  they're  young.  I  mean,  gentlemen.  We  must 
learn  to  forgive.  Either  he's  as  clever  as  the  devil,  or  he's  a 
man  in  earnest,  and  deserves  pity.     If  you'd  heard  him  !" 

"  My  poor  sister !"  sighed  Rhoda.  The  mentioning  of 
m.oney  to  be  paid  had  sickened  and  weakened  her,  as  with 
the  very  physical  taste  of  degradation. 

Hearing  the  sigh,  Robert  thought  she  had  become  sub- 
dued. Then  Rhoda  said :  "  We  are  bound  to  this  young 
man  who  loves  my  sister — bound  to  him  in  honour :  and 
Dahlia  must  esteem  him,  to  have  consented.  As  for  the 
other.  .  .  ."  She  waved  the  thought  of  his  claim  on  her 
Bister  aside  with  a  quick  shake  of  her  head.  "  I  rely  on  you 
to  do  this : — I  will  sjieak  to  Mr.  Blancove  myself.  He  shall 
not  see  her  there."  She  indicated  the  house.  "  Go  to  my 
sister ;  and  lose  no  time  in  taking  her  to  your  lodgings. 
Father  will  not  arrive  till  twelve.  Wait  and  comfort  her 
till  I  come,  and  answer  no  questions.  Robert,"  she  gave  hira 
her  hand  gently,  and,  looking  sweetly,  "  if  you  will  do 
this  !  " 

*'  If  I  will ! "  cried  Robert,  transported  by  the  hopeful 


314  RirODA  FLEMING. 

tenrlornoss.  Tlie  servant  pi-irl  of  tlie  hnnse  lifid  just  openod 
tliti  front  door,  inlt'iit  on  scrubbing,  and  lio  pasiicd  in.  Ithoda 
walkud  on  to  Edward. 


CnAPTER  XXXVII. 

EDWARD  TRIES  HIS  ELOQUENCE. 


A  PROFOTTND  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  his  eloquence,  when  he 
chose  to  expend  it,  was  one  of  the  principal  supports  of 
Edward's  sense  of  mastery  ; — a  secret  sense  belonging  to 
cei'tain  men  in  every  station  of  life,  and  which  is  the  staff 
of  many  an  otherwise  impressible  and  fluctuating  intellect. 
With  this  gift,  if  he  trifled,  or  slid  downward  in  any  direc- 
tion, he  could  right  himself  easily,  as  he  satisfactorily  con- 
ceived. It  is  a  gift  that  may  now  and  then  be  the  ruin  of 
promising  youths,  though  as  a  rule  they  find  it  helpful 
enough.  Edw-ard  had  exerted  it  upon  his  father,  and  upon 
Robei't.  Seeing  Rlioda's  approacli,  he  thought  of  it  as  a 
victorious  swordsman  thinks  of  his  weapon,  and  aimed  his 
observation  over  her  possible  weak  and  strong  points,  study- 
ing her  curiously  even  when  she  was  close  up  to  him.  With 
Robert,  the  representative  of  force,  to  aid  her,  she  could  no 
longer  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  despicable  hindrance  to 
his  wishes.  Though  inclined  strongly  to  detest,  he  respected 
her.  She  had  decision,  and  a  worthy  bearing,  and  a 
marvellously  blooming  aspect,  and  a  l)rain  that  worked 
withal.  When  she  spoke,  desii-ing  liim  to  walk  on  by 
her  side,  he  was  pleased  by  her  voice,  and  recognition  of 
the  laws  of  propriety,  and  thought  it  a  thousand  pitieg 
that  she  likewise  should  not  become  the  wife  of  a  gentle- 
man. By  degrees,  after  tentative  beginnings,  he  put  his 
6{)ell  u[)on  her  ears,  for  she  was  attentive,  and  walked 
with  a  demure  forward  look  upon  the  pavement ;  in  reality 
taking  small  note  of  what  things  lie  said,  until  he  quoted,  as 
against  himself,  sentences  from  Dahlia's  letters;  and  then 
she  fixed  her  eyes  on  liim,  astonished  that  he  should  thus 
heap  condemnation  on  his  own  head.  They  were  most 
pathetic  scraps  quoted  by  him,  showing  the  wrestle  of  love 


EDWARD  TRIES  HIS  ELOQUENCE.  315 

"witl'i  a  petrifying'  conviction  of  its  hopelessness,  ana  with 
tlio  stealing  on  of  a  malady  of  the  blood.  They  gave  such  a 
picture  of  Dahlia's  reverent  love  for  this  man,  her  long 
torture,  her  chastity  of  soul  and  simple  innocence,  and  her 
j;:ithering  delirium  of  anguish,  as  Rhoda  had  never  taken  at 
all  distinctly  to  her  mind.  She  tried  to  look  out  on  him 
from  a  mist  of  tears. 

"  How  could  you  bear  to  read  the  letters  ?  "  she  sobbed. 

"  Could  any  human  being  read  them  and  not  break  his 
heart  for  her  ?  "  said  he. 

"  How  could  you  bear  to  read  them  and  leave  her  to 
perish ! " 

His  voice  deepened  to  an  impressive  hollow:  "I  read 
them  for  the  first  time  yesterday  morning,  in  France,  and  I 
am  here !  " 

It  was  undeniably,  in  its  effec^  on  Rhoda,  a  fine  piece  of 
pleading  artifice.  It  partially  exc:ised  or  accounted  for  his 
behaviour,  while  it  filled  h^r  with  emotions  which  she 
felt  to  be  his  likewise,  and  tlieiefore  she  could  not  remain  as 
an  unsym])athetic  stranger  by  his  side. 

With  this,  he  flung  all  artifice  away.  He  told  her  the 
whole  story,  saving  the  one  black  episode  of  it — the  one 
incomprehensible  act  of  a  desperate  baseness  that,  blindly 
to  get  free,  he  had  deliberately  permitted,  blinked  at,  and 
had  so  been  guilty  of.  He  made  a  mental  pause  as  he  was 
speaking,  to  consider  in  amazement  how  and  by  what  agency 
he  had  been  reduced  to  shame  his  manhood,  and  he  left  it  a 
marvel.  Otherwise,  he  in  no  degree  exonerated  himself. 
He  dwelt  sharply  on  his  vice  of  ambition,  and  scorned  it  as 
a  misleading  light.  "  Yet  I  have  done  little  since  I  have 
been  without  her !  "  And  then,  with  a  persuasive  sincerity, 
he  assured  her  that  he  could  neither  study  nor  live  apart  from 
Dahlia.  "  She  is  the  dearest  soul  to  me  upon  earth  ;  she 
is  the  purest  woman.  I  have  lived  with  her,  I  have  lived 
apart  from  her,  and  I  cannot  live  without  her.  I  love  her 
with  a  husband's  love.  'Now,  do  you  suppose  I  will  consent 
to  be  separated  from  her  ?  I  know  that  while  her  heart 
beats,  it's  mine.     Try  to  keep  her  from  nae — you  kill  her." 

"  She  did  not  die,"  said  Rhoda.  It  confounded  his 
menaces. 

"  This  time  she  might,"  he  could  not  I'efrain  from  mur- 
muring. 


n 


IG  EnOOA  FLIIMINO, 


"  All !"     Ehnda  drew  off  from  liim. 

"  But  I  say,"  cried  he,  "  that  I  will  see  her." 

"  We  say,  that  she  sliall  do  what  is  for  her  good.'* 

"  You  liave  a  project  ?  Let  me  hear  it.  You  arc  mad,  if 
you  have." 

"  It  is  not  our  doing,  Mr.  Blancove.  It  was — it  was  by 
her  own  choice.  She  will  not  always  be  ashamed  to  look 
her  father  in  the  face.  She  dare  not  see  him  before  she  is 
made  worthy  to  see  him.  I  believe  her  to  have  been  directed 
right." 

"  And  what  is  her  choice  ?" 

"  Slie  has  chosen  for  herself  to  marry  a  good  and  wortliy 
man." 

Edward  called  out,  "  Have  you  seen  him — the  man  ?  " 

Rhoda,  thiidving  he  wished  to  have  the  certainty  of  the 
stated  fact  established,  replied,  "  I  have." 

"  A  good  and  worthy  man,"  muttered  Edward.  "  Illness, 
■weakness,  misery,  have  bewildered  her  senses.  She  thinks 
him  a  good  and  worthy  man  ?  " 

"I  think  him  so." 

"  And  you  have  seen  him  ?  " 

"  I  have." 

"Why,  what  monstrous  delusion  is  this?  It  can't  be! 
My  good  creature,  you're  oddly  deceived,  I  imagine.  What 
is  the  man's  name  ?  I  can  understand  that  she  has  lost  lier 
will  and  distinct  sight ;  but  you  are  clear-sighted,  and  can 
estimate.     What  is  the  man's  name  ?  " 

"  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Khoda  ;  "  his  name  is  Mr.  Sedgett." 

"  Mister !"  Edward  gave  one  hollow  stave  of  laugh- 

ter.     "  And  you  have  seen  him,  and  think  him " 

"  I  know  he  is  not  a  gentleman,"  said  Khoda.  "  He  has 
been  deeply  good  to  my  sister,  and  I  thank  him,  and  do 
respect  him." 

"Deeply!"  Edward  echoed.  He  was  prompted  to  betray 
and  confess  himself  :  courage  failed. 

Tliey  looked  around  simultaneously  on  hearing  an  advanc- 
ing footstep. 

The  very  man  appeared — in  holiday  attire,  flushed, 
smiling,  and  with  a  nosegay  of  roses  in  his  hanil.  He 
studied  the  art  of  pleasing  women.  His  eye  struck  on 
Edward,  and  his  smile  vanished.  Khoda  gave  him  no  word 
of  recognition.     As  he  passed  on,  he  was  led  to  speculate 


EDWARD  TEIES  HIS  ELOQUENCE.  317 

from  his  having  seen  Mr.  Edwfird  instead  of  Mr.  Algernon, 
and  from  the  look  of  the  former,  that  changes  were  in  the 
air,  possibly  chicanery,  and  the  proclaiming  of  himself  as 
neatly  diddled  by  the  pair  whom,  with  another,  he  heartily- 
hoped  to  dupe. 

After  he  had  gone  by,  Edward  and  Rhoda  changed 
looks.  Both  knew  the  destination  of  that  lovely  nosegay. 
The  common  knowledge  almost  kindled  an  illuminating 
spark  in  her  brain  ;  but  she  was  left  in  the  dark,  and  thought 
him  strangely  divining,  or  only  strange.  For  him,  a  horror 
cramped  his  limbs.  He  felt  that  he  had  raised  a  devil  in 
that  abominable  smii'king  ruffian.  It  may  not,  perhaps,  be 
said  that  he  had  distinctly  known  Sedgett  to  be  the  man. 
He  had  certainly  suspected  the  possibility  of  his  being  the 
man.  It  is  out  of  the  power  of  most  wilful  and  selfish 
natures  to  imagine,  so  as  to  see  accurately,  the  deeds  they 
prompt  or  permit  to  be  done.  They  do  not  comprehend 
them  until  these  black  realities  stand  up  before  their  eyes. 

Ejaculating  "  Great  heaven !"  Edward  strode  some  steps 
away,  and  returned. 

"  It's  folly,  Rhoda ! — the  uttermost  madness  ever  con- 
ceived !  I  do  not  believe — I  know  that  Dahlia  would  never 
consent — first,  to  marry  any  man  but  myself ;  secondly,  to 
marry  a  man  who  is  not  a  perfect  gentleman.  Her  delicacy 
distinguishes  her  among  women." 

"  Mr.  Blancove,  my  sister  is  nearly  dead,  only  that  she  is 
so  strong.  The  disgrace  has  overwhelmed  her,  it  has. 
When  she  is  married,  she  will  thank  and  honour  him,  and 
see  nothing  but  his  love  and  kindness.  I  will  leave  you 
now." 

"  I  am  going  to  her,"  said  Edward. 

"  Do  not." 

"  There's  an  end  of  talking.  I  trust  no  one  will  come  in 
my  path.     Where  am  I  ?" 

He  looked  up  at  the  name  of  the  street,  and  shot  away 
from  her.  Rhoda  departed  in  another  direction,  firm,  since 
she  had  seen  Sedgett  pass,  that  his  nobleness  should  not 
meet  with  an  ill  reward.  She  endowed  him  with  fair  moral 
qualities,  which  she  contrasted  against  Edward  Blancove's 
evil  ones  ;  and  it  was  with  a  democratic  fervour  of  contempt 
that  she  dismissed  the  superior  outward  attractions  of  the 
gentleman. 


318  EUODA  FLEMINQ. 

CHAPTER  XXXVUL 

TOO  LATE. 

Tnis  npiQflilionrlinorl  Avas  unknown  to  Edward,  and,  after 
plunL;"iii^  about  in  one  direction  and  anotliei",  he  found  that 
he  had  missed  his  way.  Down  innumei-able  dusky  streets 
of  dwartcd  houses,  showing  soiled  sik-nt  win(h:)W-blinds,  he 
liurried  and  chafed ;  at  one  moment  in  sliarp  joy  that  he 
had  got  a  resolution,  and  the  next  dismayed  by  the  singular 
petty  impediments  which  were  tripping  him.  "My  dearest!" 
his  heart  cried  to  Dahlia,  "  did  I  wrong  you  so  ?  I  will 
make  all  well.  It  was  the  work  of  a  fiend."  N^ow  he 
turned  to  right,  now  to  left,  and  the  minutes  flew.  They 
flew ;  and  in  the  gathering  heat  of  his  brain  he  magnified 
things  until  the  sacrifice  of  herself  Dahlia  was  preparing 
for  smote  his  imagination  as  with  a  blaze  of  the  upper  light, 
and  stood  sublime  before  him  in  the  grandeur  of  old 
tragedy.  "  She  has  blinded  her  eyes,  stifled  her  senses, 
eaten  her  heart.  Oh  !  my  beloved!  my  wife!  my  poor  girl! 
and  all  to  be  free  from  shame  in  her  father's  sight  !"  Who 
could  have  believed  that  a  girl  of  Dahlia's  class  would  at 
once  have  felt  the  shame  so  keenly,  and  risen  to  such  pure 
heights  of  heroism  H  The  sacrifice  flouted  conception ;  ifc 
mocked  the  steady  morning.  He  refused  to  believe  in  it, 
but  the  short  throbs  of  his  blood  were  wiser. 

A  whistling  urchin  became  his  guide.  The  little  lad  was 
carelessly  giving  note  to  a  popular  opera  tune,  with  happy 
disregard  of  concord.  It  chanced  that  the  tune  was  one 
which  had  taken  Dahlia's  ear,  and,  remembering  it  and  her 
pretty  humming  of  it  in  the  old  days,  Edward's  wrestling 
unbelief  with  the  fatality  of  the  hour  sank,  so  entirely  Avas 
he  under  the  sovereignty  of  his  sensations.  He  gave  the 
boy  a  big  fee,  desiring  superstitiously  to  feel  that  one  human 
creature  could  bless  the  hour.  The  house  was  in  view.  He 
knocked,  and  there  came  a  strange  murmur  of  some  denial. 
"  She  is  here,"  he  said,  menacingly. 

"  She  was  taken  away,  sir,  ten  minutes  gone,  by  a  gentle- 
man," the  servant  tried  to  assure  him. 

The  landlady  of  the  house,  coming  up  the  kitchen  stairs, 
confirmed  the  statement.     In  pity  for  his  torpid  incTedulity 


TOO  LATE.  319 

she  begged  him  to  examine  her  house  from  top  to  bottom, 
and  herself  conducted  him  to  Dahlia's  room. 

"  That  bed  has  not  been  slept  in,"  said  the  lawyer,  point- 
ing his  finger  to  it. 

"  N'o,  sir ;  poor  thing  !  she  didn't  sleep  last  night.  She's 
been  wearying  for  weeks ;  and  last  night  her  sister  came, 
and  they  hadn't  met  for  very  long.  Two  whole  candles  they 
bm-nt  ont,  or  near  upon  it." 

"  Where  ? "  Edward's  articulation  choked. 

"  Where  they're  gone  to,  sir  ?  That  I  do  not  know.  Of 
course  she  will  come  back." 

The  landlady  begged  him  to  wait ;  but  to  sit  and  see  the 
minutes — the  black  emissaries  of  perdition — Hy  upon  their 
business,  was  torture  as  big  as  to  endure  the  tearing  off  of 
his  flpsh  till  the  skeleton  stood  out.  Up  to  this  point  he 
had  blamed  himself ;  now  he  accused  the  just  heavens. 
Yea !  is  not  a  sinner  their  lawful  quarry  ?  and  do  they  not 
slip  the  hounds  with  savage  glee,  and  hunt  him  down  from 
wrong  to  evil,  from  evil  to  infamy,  from  infamy  to  death, 
from  death  to  woe  everlasting?  And  is  this  their  righteous- 
ness Y — He  caught  at  the  rusty  garden  rails  to  steady  his 
feet. 

Algernon  was  employed  in  the  comfortable  degustation  of 
his  breakfast,  meditating  whether  he  should  transfer  a  fui*- 
ther  slice  of  ham  or  of  Yorkshire  pie  to  his  plate,  or  else 
have  done  with  feeding  and  light  a  cigar,  when  Edward 
appeared  before  him. 

"  Do  you  know  where  that  man  lives  ?" 

Algernon  had  a  prompting  to  respond,  "  Xow,  really  !  what 
man  ?"  But  passion  stops  the  breath  of  fools.  He  answered, 
"Yes." 

"  Have  you  the  thousand  in  your  pocket  ?" 

Algernon  nodded  with  a  sickly  grin. 

"  Jump  up  !  Go  to  him.  Give  it  up  to  him  !  Say,  that 
if  he  leaves  London  on  the  instant,  and  lets  you  see  him  off 
— say,  it  shall  be  doubled.  Stay,  I'll  WTite  the  promise,  and 
put  my  signature.  Tell  him  he  shall,  on  my  word  of  honour, 
have  another — another  thousand  pounds — as  soon  as  I  can 
possibly  obtain  it,  if  he  holds  his  tongue,  and  goes  with  you ; 
and  see  that  he  goes.  Don't  talk  to  me  on  any  other  sub- 
ject, or  lose' one  minute." 

Algernon  got  his  limbs  slackly  together,  trying  to  think  of 


32vO  EnODA  FLEMING. 

the  particular  pocket  in  which  he  liad  left  his  cic^ar-caso. 
Edward  wi-ote  a  line  on  a  slip  of  note-paper,  and  siyrned  hig 
name  beneath.  With  this  and  an  unsatisHed  loiiLriiiup  for 
tobacco  Ali^ernon  departed,  agreeing  to  meet  his  cousin  in 
the  street  where  Daldia  dwelt. 

"  By  Jove  !  two  thousand !  It's  an  expensive  thing  not 
to  know  your  own  mind,"  he  thought. 

"  How  am  I  to  get  out  of  this  scrape?  That  girl  Rhnda 
doesn't  care  a  button  forme.  No  colonies  for  me.  I  should 
feel  like  a  convict  if  I  went  alone.  What  on  earth  am  I 
to  do  P" 

It  seemed  preposterous  to  him  that  he  should  t.ake  a  cab, 
when  he  had  not  settled  upon  a  scheme.  The  sight  of  a 
tobacconist's  shop  charmed  one  of  his  more  immediate 
difficulties  to  sleep.  He  was  soon  enabled  to  pull  consoling 
smoke. 

"  Ned's  mad,"  he  pursued  his  soliloquy.  "  He's  a  weather- 
cock. Do  I  ever  act  as  he  does  ?  And  I'm  the  dog  that 
gets  the  bad  name.  The  idea  of  giving  this  fellow  two 
thousand — two  thousand  pounds !  Why,  he  might  live  like 
a  gentleman." 

And  that,  when  your  friend  proves  himself  to  be  distraught, 
the  proper  friendly  thing  to  do  is  to  think  for  him,  became 
eminently  clear  in  Algernon's  mind. 

"  Of  course,  it's  Ned's  money.  I'd  give  it  if  I  had  it,  but 
I  haven't ;  and  the  fellow  won't  take  a  fai-thing  less  ;  I  know 
him.     However,  it's  my  duty  to  try." 

He  summoned  a  vehicle.  It  was  a  boast  of  his  proud 
youth  that  never  in  his  life  had  he  ridden  in  a  close  cab. 
Flinging  his  shoulders  back,  he  surveyed  the  world  on  foot. 
"  Odd  faces  one  sees,"  he  meditated.  "  I  suppose  they've 
got  feelings,  like  the  rest;  but  a  fellow  can't  help  asking — 
what's  the  use  of  them  ?  If  I  inherit  all  right,  as  I  ought 
to — why  shouldn't  I  ? — I'll  squat  down  at  old  Wrexby, 
garden  and  laim,  and  drink  my  Pi)rt.  I  hate  London.  The 
squire's  not  so  far  wrong,  I  fancy." 

It  struck  him  that  his  chance  of  inheriting  Avas  not  so 
very  obscure,  after  all.  Why  had  he  ever  considered  it 
obscure  ?  It  was  decidedly  next  to  certain,  he  being  an  only 
son.     And  the  squire's  health  Avas  bad  ! 

While  speculating  in  this  wise  he  saw  advancing,  arm-in- 
arm.  Lord  Suckling   and  Harry  Latters.     They  looked   at 


TOO  LATE. 


32L 


him,  and  evidently  spoke  together,  but  gave  neither  nod,  nor 
smile,  nor  a  word,  in  answer  to  his  flying  wave  of  the  hand. 
FurioiTS,  and  aghast  at  this  signal  of  exclusion  from  the 
world,  just  at  the  moment  when  he  was  returning  to  it  almost 
cheerfully  in  spirit,  he  stopped  the  cab,  jumped  out,  and  ran 
after  the  pair. 

"I  suppose  I  must  say  J/r.  Latters,"  Algernon  com- 
menced. 

Harry  deliberated  a  quiet  second  or  two.  "  Well,  accord- 
ing  to  our  laws  of  primogeniture,  I  don't  come  iirst,  and 
therefore  miss  a  better  title,"  he  said. 

"  How  are  you  ?"  Algernon  nodded  to  Lord  Suckling, 
who  replied,  "  Very  well,  I  thank  you." 

Their  legs  were  swinging  forward  concordantly.  Algernon 
plucked  out  his  purse.  "  I  have  to  beg  you  to  excuse  me," 
he  said,  hurriedly  ;  "  my  cousin  Ned's  in  a  mess,  and  I've 
been  helping  him  as  well  as  I  can — bothered — not  an  hour 
my  own.  Fifty,  I  think?"  That  amount  he  tendered  to 
Harry  Latters,  who  took  it  most  coolly. 

•'  A  thousand  ?"  he  queried  of  Lord  Suckling. 
"  Divided  by  two,"  replied  the  young  nobleman,  and  the 
Blilcher  of   bank-notes   was  proffered  to  him.     He  smiled 
queerly,  hesitating  to  take  it. 

"  I  was  looking  for  you  at  all  the  Clubs  last  night,"  said 
Algernon. 

Lord  Suckling  and  Latters  had  been  at  theirs,  playing 
whist  till  past  midnight ;  yet  is  money,  even  when  paid  over 
in  this  egregious  public  manner  by  a  nervous  hand,  such  tes- 
timony to  the  sincerity  of  a  man,  that  they  shouted  a  simul- 
taneous invitation  for  him  to  breakfast  with  them,  in  an 
hour,  at  the  Club,  or  dine  with  them  there  that  evening. 
Algernon  affected  the  nod  of  haste  and  acquiescence,  and 
ran,  lest  they  should  hear  him  groan.  He  told  the  cabman 
to  drive  Northward,  instead  of  to  the  South-west.  The 
question  of  the  thousand  pounds  had  been  decided  for  him — 
"  by  fate,"  he  chose  to  afiirm.  The  consideration  that  one  is 
pursued  by  fate,  will  not  fail  to  impart  a  sense  of  dignity 
even  to  the  meanest.  "  After  all,  if  I  stop  in  England,"  said 
he,  "  I  can't  afford  to  lose  my  position  in  society  ;  anything's 
better  than  that  an  unmitigated  low  scoundrel  like  Sedgett 
should  bag  the  game."  Besides,  is  it  not  somewhat  sceptical 
to  suppose  that  when  Fate  decides,  she  has  not  weighed  the 


822  RHODA  FLEMING. 

scales,  and  docidod  for  tlie  best  ?  Moantiino,  the  whole 
encre^y  of  his  intellect  wus  set  reflecting  on  the  sort  of  lie 
•which  Edward  would,  by  nature  and  the  occasion,  be  dis- 
posed to  swallow.  He  quit  ted  the  cab,  and  walked  in  the 
Pai'k,  and  au  (liable  to  him  there  !  the  fool  has  done  his 
work. 

It  was  now  half-past  ten.  Robert,  with  a  most  heavy 
heart,  had  accomplished  Rhoda's  commands  iipon  him.  He 
had  taken  Dahlia  to  his  lodgings,  whither,  when  free  from 
Edward,  Rhoda  proceeded  in  a  mood  of  extreme  sternness. 
She  neither  thanked  Robert,  nor  smiled  upon  her  sister. 
Dahlia  sent  one  quivering  look  up  at  her,  and  cowered 
lower  in  her  chair  near  the  window. 

"  Father  comes  at  twelve  r"  "  Rhoda  said. 

Robert  rejdied  :  "  He  does." 

After  which  a  silence  too  irritating  for  masculine  nerves 
filled  the  room. 

"  You  will  find,  I  hope,  everything  here  that  you  may 
want,"  said  Robei"t.  "  My  landlady  will  attend  to  the  bell. 
She  is  very  civil." 

"  Thank  you  ;  we  shall  not  want  anything,"  said  Rhoda 
"  There  is  my  sister's  Bible  at  her  lodgings." 

Robert  gladly  offered  to  fetch  it,  and  left  them  with  a 
sense  of  relief  that  was  almost  joy.  He  waited  a  minute  in 
the  doorway,  to  hear  whether  Dahlia  addressed  him.  He 
waited  on  the  thi'eshold  of  the  house,  that  he  might  be  sure 
Dahlia  did  not  call  for  his  assistance.  Her  cry  of  ajipeal 
would  have  fortified  him  to  stand  against  Rhoda;  but  no  cry 
was  heard.  He  kept  expecting  it,  pausing  for  it,  hoping  it 
would  come  to  solve  his  intense  perplexity.  The  prolonged 
stillness  terrified  him  ;  for,  away  from  the  sisters,  he  had 
power  to  read  the  anguish  of  Dahlia's  heart,  her  frozen 
incapacity,  and  the  great  and  remorseless  mastery  which  lay 
in  Rhoda's  inexorable  will. 

A  few  doors  down  the  street  he  met  Major  Wiring,  on  his 
way  to  him.  "  Here's  five  minutes'  work  going  to  be  done, 
which  we  may  all  of  us  regret  till  the  day  of  our  deaths," 
Robert  said,  and  related  what  had  passed  during  the  morning 
hours. 

Percy  approved  Rhoda,  saying,  "  She  must  rescue  her 
sister  at  all  Jia/.aids.  The  case  is  too  serious  for  her  to  listen 
to  feelings,  and  legrets,  and  objections.     The  world  against 


TOO  LATE.  323 

one  poor  -woman  is  nnfair  odds,  Robert.     I  come  to  tell  you 
I  leave  England  in  a  day  or  two.     Will  yon  join  me  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  what  I  shall  or  can  do  ?  "  said  Robert, 
mournfully :  and  they  parted. 

Rhoda's  strong  unflickering  determination  to  carry  out, 
and  to  an  end,  this  tragic  struggle  of  duty  against  inclination; 
on  her  own  sole  responsibility  forcing  it  on  ;  acting  like  a 
Fate,  in  contempt  of  mere  emotions  ; — seemed  barely  real  to 
his  mind  :  each  moment  that  he  conceived  it  vividly,  he 
became  more  certain  that  she  must  break  down.  Was  it  in 
her  power  to  drag  Dahlia  to  the  steps  of  the  altar  ?  And 
vpould  not  her  heart  melt  when  at  last  Dahlia  did  get  her 
voice  ?  "  This  marriage  can  never  take  place!  "  he  said,  and 
was  convinced  of  its  being  impossible.  He  forgot  that  while 
he  was  wasting  energy  at  Fairly,  Rhodahadsat  hiving  bitter 
strength  in  the  loneliness  of  the  Farm;  with  one  vile  epithet 
clapping  on  her  eai-s,  and  nothing  but  unavailing  Avounded 
love  for  her  absent  unhappy  sister  to  make  music  of  her 
pulses. 

He  found  his  way  to  Dahlia's  room  ;  he  put  her  Bible 
under  his  ai-m,  and  looked  about  him  sadly.  Time  stood  at 
a  few  minutes  past  eleven.  Flinging  himself  into  a  chair,  he 
thought  of  waiting  in  that  place;  but  a  crowd  of  undetinable 
sensations  immediately  beset  him.  Seeing  Edwai'd  Blancove 
in  the  street  below,  he  threw  up  the  window  compassionately, 
and  Edward,  casting  a  glance  to  x-ight  and  left,  crossed  the 
road.     Robert  went  down  to  him. 

"I  am  waiting  for  my  cousin."  Edward  had  his  watch  in 
his  hand.  "  I  think  I  am  fast.  Can  you  tell  me  the  time 
exactly  ?  " 

"  Why,  I'm  rather  slow,"  said  Robert,  comparing  time 
■with  his  own  watch.  "  I  make  it  four  minutes  past  the 
hour." 

"  I  am  at  fourteen,"  said  Edward.  "  I  fancy  I  must  be 
fast." 

"  About  ten  minutes  past,  is  the  time,  I  think." 

"  So  much  as  that  !  " 

"  It  may  be  a  minute  or  so  less." 

"  I  should  like,"  said  Edward,  "  to  ascertain  positively.** 

*'  There's  a  clock  down  in  the  kitchen  here,  1  suppose," 
Raid  Robert.  "  Safer,  there's  a  clock  at  the  church,  just  in 
sight  from,  here." 

y2 


324  RIIODA  FLEMING. 

*'  Thank  yon ;  I  will  p^o  and  look  at  that.'* 

Tvobert  bethonght  himself  suddenly  that  Edward  had 
better  not.  "  I  can  toll  you  the  time  to  a  second,"  he  said. 
"It's  now  twelve  minutes  jiast  eleven." 

Edward  luld  his  wateh  balancing.  "  Twelve,"  ho  repeated; 
and,  behind  this  mask  of  common-place  dialogue,  they 
watched  one  another — warily,  and  still  with  pity,  on  Robert's 

side. 

"  You  can't  place  any  reliance  on  watches,"  said  Edward. 
"  None,  I  believe,"  Robert  remarked. 

"If  you  could  see  the  sun  every  day  in  this  climate!" 
Edward  looked  up. 

"Ah,  the  sun's  the  best  timepiece,  when  visible," 
Robert  actiuiesced.  "  Backwoodsmen  in  Amei-ica  don't  need 
watches." 

"  Unless  it  is  to  astonish  the  Indians  with  them." 
"Ah  !  yes!"  hummed  Robert. 

"  Twelve — fifteen — it  must  be  a  quarter  past.  Or,  a  three 
quarters  to  the  next  hour,  as  the  Geimans  say." 

"  Odd  !"  Robert  ejaculated.  "  Foreigners  have  the  queerest 
■ways  in  the  world.  They  mean  no  harm,  but  they  make  you 
laugh." 

"  They  think  the  same  of  us,  and  perhaps  do  the  laughing 
more  loudly." 

"Ah!  let  them,"  said  Robeit,  not  without  contemptuous 
indignation,  though  his  mind  was  far  from  the  talk. 

The  sweat  was  "on  Edward's  forehead.  "  In  a  few  minutes 
it  will  be  half-past — half-past  eleven!  I  expect  a  friend ; 
that  makes  me  impatient.  Mr.  Eccles" — Edward  showed 
his  singular,  smallish,  hard-cut  and  flashing  features,  clear 
as  if  he  had  blown  off  a  mist — "  you  are  too  much  of  a  man 
to  bear  malice.  Where  is  Dahlia  ?  Tell  me  at  once.  Some 
one  seems  to  be  cruelly  driving  her.  Has  she  lost  her  senses  ? 
She  has : — or  else  she  is  coerced  in  an  inexplicable  and 
shameful  manner." 

"Mr.  Blancove,"  said  Robert,  "I  bear  you  not  a  bit  of 
malice — couldn't  if  I  would.  I'm  not  sure  I  could  have  said 
guilty  to  the  same  sort  of  things,  in  order  to  tell  an  enemy 
of  mine  I  was  sorry  for  wliat  I  had  done,  and  I  respect  you 
for  your  courage.     Dahlia  was  taken  from  here  by  me." 

Edward  nodded,  as  if  briefly  assenting,  while  his  fca.tares 
Bharpeucd, 


TOO  LATE. 


S25 


«'  Why  ?"  he  asked. 

"  It  was  her  sister's  wish." 

"  Has  she  no  will  of  her  own  ?" 

"  Very  little,  I'm  afraid,  just  now,  sir." 

"  A  remarkable  sister !     Are  they  of  Puritan  origin  ?" 
■  "  Not  that  I  am  aware  of." 

"And  this  father?" 

"  Mr.  Blancove,  he  is  one  of  those  sort — he  can't  lift  np 
his  head  if  he  so  much  as  suspects  a  reproach  to  his 
children." 

Edward  brooded.  "  I  desire — as  I  told  you,  as  I  told  her 
sister,  as  I  told  my  father  last  night — I  desire  to  make  her 
my  wife.  What  can  I  do  more  ?  Are  they  mad  with  some 
absurd  country  pride  ?  Half- past  eleven  ! — it  will  be  murder 
if  they  force  her  to  it !  Where  is  she  ?  To  such  a  man  as 
that !  Poor  soul !  I  can  hardly  fear  it,  for  I  can't  imagine 
it.     Here — the  time  is  going.    You  know  the  man  yourself.' 

"  I  know  the  man  ?"  said  Robert.  "  I've  never  set  eyes 
on  him — I've  never  set  eyes  on  him,  and  never  liked  to  ask 
much  about  him.  I  had  a  sort  of  feeling.  Her  sister  says 
he  is  a  good,  and  kind,  honourable  young  fellow,  and  he  must 
be." 

"  Before  it's  too  late,"  Edward  muttered  hurriedly — "  you 
know  him — his  name  his  Sedgett." 

Robert  hung  swaying  over  him  with  a  big  voiceless  chest. 

"  That  Sedgett  ?"  he  breathed  huskily,  and  his  look  was 
hard  to  meet. 

Edward  frowned,  unable  to  raise  his  head. 

"  Lord  in  heaven!  some  one  has  something  to  answer  for!" 
cried  Robert.  "  Come  on ;  come  to  the  church.  That  foul 
dog  ? — Or  you,  stay  where  you  are.  I'll  go.  He  to  be  Dahlia's 
husband  !  They've  seen  him,  and  can't  see  what  he  is  ! — 
cunning  with  women  as  that  ?  How  did  they  meet  ?  Do 
you  know  ? — can't  you  guess  ?" 

He  flung  a  lightning  at  Edward  and  ran  off.  Bursting 
into  the  aisle,  he  saw  the  minister  closing  the  Book  at  the 
altar,  and  three  persons  moving  toward  the  vestiy,  of  whom 
the  last,  and  the  one  he  discerned,  was  Rhoda 


826  EHODA  FLEMING 

CnAPTER  XXXTX. 

D  A  II  I.  I  A    GOES    HOME. 

Lath  into  tlio  afternoon,  Farmer  Fleming  was  oconpying 
a  chair  in  Hobc)-t's  lodij^inf^s,  where  he  had  sat  since  the 
hour  of  twelve,  without  a  movement  of  his  limbs  or  of  his 
mind,  and  alone.  He  showed  no  si^-n  that  lie  cx])ected  the 
approach  of  anyone.  As  mute  and  unrcmonstrant  as  a  fallen 
tree,  nearly  as  insensible,  his  eyes  half  closed,  and  his  hands 
lying  open,  the  great  figure  of  the  old  man  kept  this  attitude 
as  of  still'  decay  through  long  sunny  hours,  and  the  noise  of 
the  London  suburb.  Although  the  wedding  people  were 
strangely  late,  it  was  unnoticed  by  him.  When  the  door 
opened  and  Rhoda  stepped  into  the  room,  he  was  unaware 
that  he  had  been  waiting,  and  only  knew  that  the  hours  had 
somehow  accumulated  to  a  heavy  burden  upon  him. 

"  She  is  coming,  father  ;  Robert  is  bringing  her  up,"  Rhoda 
said. 

"Let  her  come,"  he  answered. 

Robert's  hold  was  tight  under  Dahlia's  arm  as  they  passed 
the  doorway,  and  then  the  farmer  stood.  Robert  closed  the 
door. 

For  some  few  painful  moments  the  farmer  could  not 
speak,  and  his  hand  was  raised  rejectingly.  The  return  of 
human  animation  to  his  heart  made  him  look  more  sternly 
than  he  felt;  but  he  had  to  rid  himself  of  one  terrible  ques- 
tion before  he  satisfied  his  gi-adual  desire  to  take  his  daucrhter 
to  his  breast.  It  came  at  last:  like  a  short  roll  of  drums, 
the  words  were  heard  : 

"  Is  she  an  honest  woman  ?  " 

"  She  is,"  said  Rhoda. 

The  farmer  was  looking  on  Robert. 

Robert  said  it  likewise  in  a  murmur,  but  with  steadfast 
look. 

Bending  liis  eyes  now  upon  Dahlia,  a  n.ist  of  affection 
grew  in  them.  He  threw  up  his  head,  and  with  a  choking, 
infantine  cry,  uttered — "  Come." 

Robert  placed  hi'r  against  her  father's  bosom. 

He  moved  to  the  window  beside  Rhoda,  and  whispered. 


DAHLIA  GOES  HOME.  327 

and  slie  answered,  and  they  knew  not  what  they  said.  The 
joint  moans  of  father  and  daughter — the  unutterable  com- 
munion of  such  a  meeting — filled  their  ears.  Grief  held  aloof 
as  much  as  joy.  Neither  joy  nor  grief  were  in  those  two 
hearts  of  parent  and  child ;  but  the  senseless  contentment  of 
hard,  of  infinite  hard  human  craving. 

The  old  man  released  her,  and  Rhoda  undid  her  hands 
from  him,  and  led  the  pale  Sacrifice  to  another  room. 
"  Where's  .  .  .  ?  "  Mr.  Fleming  asked. 
Robert  understood  him. 
"  Her  husband  will  not  come." 

It  was  interpreted  by  the  farmer  as  her  husband's  pride. 
Or,  may  be,  the  man  who  was  her  husband  now  had  righted 
her  at  last,  and  then  flang  her  off  in  spite  for  what  he  had 
been  made  to  do. 

"  I'm  not  being  deceived,  Robert  ?  " 
"  No,  sir  ;  upon  my  soul  !  " 

"  I've  got  that  hei'e,"  the  farmer  struck  his  ribs. 
Rhoda  came  back.  "  Sister  is  tired,"  she  said.  "  Dahlia 
is  going  down  home  with  you,  for  ...  I  hope,  for  a  long  stay." 
"  All  the  better,  while  home  we've  got.  We  mayn't  lose 
time,  my  girl.  Gammon's  on  's  way  to  the  station  now. 
He'll  wait.  He'll  wait  till  midnight.  You  may  always 
reckon  on  a  slow  man  like  Gammon  for  waitin'.  Robert 
comes  too  ?  " 

"  Father,  we  have  business  to  do.  Robert  gives  me  his 
rooms  here  for  a  little  time ;  his  landlady  is  a  kind  woman, 
and  will  take  care  of  me.     You  will  trust  me  to  Robert." 

"  I'll  bring  Rhoda  down  on  Monday  evening,"  Robert  sai<? 
to  the  farmer.     "  You  may  trust  me,  Mr.  Fleming." 

"  That  I  know.  That  I'm  sure  of.  That's  a  certainty." 
said  the  farmer.  "  I'd  do  it  for  good,  if  for  good  was  in 
the  girl's  heart,  Robert.  There  seems,"  he  hesitated ;  "  eh, 
Robert,  there  seems  a  something  upon  us  all.  There's  a 
something  to  be  done,  is  there  ?  But  if  I've  got  my  flesh 
and  blood,  and  none  can  spit  on  her,  why  should  I  be  asking 
'  whats  '  and  '  whys  '  ?  I  bow  my  head ;  and  God  forgive  me, 
if  ever  I  complained.  A.nd  you  loill  bring  Rhoda  to  us  on 
Monday  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  try  and  help  to  make  the  farm  look  up  again, 
if  Gammon  '11  do  the  ordering  about." 

"  Poor  old  Mas'  Gammon  1     He's  a  rare  old  man.     Is  he 


228  rnoBA  flejiino. 

cluinp'ocl  liy  fidvcTsity,  Robert?  Thoucrh  he's  awfnl  socrct, 
that  old  man  !  L)o  you  consider  a  bit  Gammon's  faithfulness, 
Robert !" 

"  Av",  he's  above  most  men  in  that,"  Robci-t  agreed. 

"  On  with  Dahlia's  bcmnet — sliarp !"  the  farmer  gave  com- 
mand.  Ho  felt,  now  that  he  was  growing  accustomed  to  the 
coiiitiion  observation  of  things,  that  the  faces  and  voices 
around  him  were  dilTerent  from  such  as  the  day  brings 
in  its  usual  course.  "  We're  all  as  slow  as  Mas'  Gammon,  I 
reckon." 

"  Father,"  said  Rhoda,  "she  is  weak.  She  has  been  very 
unwell.  Do  not  trouble  her  with  any  questions.  Do  not 
let  any  question  be  asked  of  her  at  home.  Any  talking 
fatigues  ;  it  may  be  dangerous  to  her." 

The  farmer  stared.  "  A}"-,  and  aboat  her  hair.  .  .  .  I'm 
beginning  to  remember.  She  wears  a  cap,  and  her  hair's 
cut  olf  like  an  oakum-picker's.  That's  more  gossip  for 
neighbours !" 

"Mad  people!  will  they  listen  to  truth?"  Rhoda  flamed 
out  in  her  dark  fashion.  "  We  speak  truth,  nothing  but 
truth.  She  has  had  a  brain  fever.  That  makes  her  very- 
weak,  and  every  one  must  be  silent  at  home.  Father,  stop 
the  sale  of  the  farm,  for  Robert  will  work  it  into  order.  He 
has  promised  to  be  our  friend,  and  Dahlia  will  get  her  health 
there,  and  be  near  mother's  grave." 

The  farmer  replied,  as  from  a  far  thought,  "  There's  money 
in  my  pocket  to  take  down  two." 

He  continued :  "  But  there's  not  money  there  to  feed  our 
family  a  week  on;  I  leave  it  to  the  Lord.  I  sow;  I  dig,  and 
I  sow,  and  when  bread  fails  to  us  the  land  must  go ;  and  let 
it  go,  and  no  crying  about  it.  I'm  astonishing  easy  at  heart, 
though  if  I  must  sell,  and  do  sell,  I  shan't  help  thinking  of 
my  father,  and  his  father,  and  the  father  before  him — may- 
liap,  and  in  most  likelihood,  artfuller  men  'n  me — for  what 
they  was  born  to  they  made  to  ilourish.  They'll  cry  in  their 
graves.  A  man's  heart  sticks  to  land,  Robert;  that  you'll 
find,  some  day.  I  thought  I  cared  none  but  about  land  till 
that  poor,  weak,  white  thing  put  her  arms  on  my  neck." 

]{hoda  had  slipped  away  from  them  again. 

The  farmer  stooped  to  Robert's  ear.  "  Had  a  bit  of  a  dis- 
agreement with  her  husband,  is  it  ?" 

Robert  cleared  his  throat.     "  Ay,  that's  it,"  he  said. 


DABLTA  GOES  BOMS.  329 

«  Serious,  at  all  ?" 

*'  One  can't  tell,  yon  know.'' 

**  And  not  her  fault — not  my  girl's  fault,  Robert  ?" 

*'  No  ;  I  can  swear  to  that." 

**  She's  come  to  the  right  home,  then.  She'll  be  near  her 
mother  and  me.  Let  her  pray  at  night,  and  she'll  know 
she's  always  near  her  blessed  mother.  Perhaps  the  women 
'11  want  to  take  refreshment,  if  we  may  so  far  make  free  with 
your  hospitality  ;  but  it  must  be  quick,  Robert — or  will  tbey  r* 
They  can't  eat,  and  I  can't  eat." 

Soon  afterward  Mr.  Fleming  took  his  daughter  Dahlia  from 
tbe  house  and  out  of  London.  The  deeply-afBicted  creature 
•was,  as  the  doctors  had  said  of  her,  too  strong  for  the  ordi- 
nary modes  of  killing.  She  could  walk  and  still  support 
berself,  though  the  ordeal  she  had  gone  through  this  day 
■was  such  as  few  women  could  have  traversed.  The  terror  to 
follow  the  deed  she  had  done  was  yet  unseen  by  her;  and  for 
the  hour  she  tasted,  if  not  peace,  the  pause  to  suffering  which 
is  giyen  by  an  act  accomplished. 

Robert  and  Rhoda  sat  in  different  rooms  till  it  was  dusk. 
"When  she  appeared  before  him  in  the  half  light,  the  ravage 
of  a  past  storm  was  visible  on  her  face.  She  sat  down  to 
make  tea,  and  talked  with  singular  self-command. 

"  Mr.  Fleming  mentioned  the  gossips  down  at  Wrexby," 
Baid  Robert :  "  are  they  very  bad  down  there  ?" 

"  Kot  wprse  than  in  other  villages,"  said  Rhoda.  "  They 
have  not  been  unkind.  They  have  spoken  about  us,  but  not 
unkindly — I  mean,  not  spitefully." 

"  And  you  forgive  them  ?" 

"I  do  :  they  cannot  hurt  us  now." 

Robert  was  but  striving  to  master  some  comprehension  of. 
her  chai'acter. 

"  "What  are  we  to  resolve,  Rhoda  ?" 

*'  3  must  get  the  money  promised  to  this  man." 

"  When  he  has  flung  off  his  wife  at  the  church  door?" 
"He  married  my  sister  for  the  money.     He  said  it.     Oh  ! 
he  said  it.     He  shall  not  say  that  we  have  deceived  him.     I 
to'ld  him  he  should  have  it.     He  married  her  for  money !" 
"  You  should  not  have  told  him  so,  Rhoda." 
•'  1  did,  and  1  will  not  let  my  word  be  broken." 
"  Pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  where  you  will  get  the  money  ? 
It's  a  large  sum." 


830  RITODA.  FLEMING. 

"  I  will  get  it,"  Rhoda  said  firmly. 

*'  By  the  sale  of  the  farm  ?  " 

"No,  not  to  hurt  father." 

"  But  this  man's  a  scoundrel.  I  knnv^  him.  TVe  Tcno-wn 
him  for  years.  J\Iy  fear  is  that  lie  will  be  coming  to  claim 
his  wife.     How  was  it   I  never  insisted  on   seeing  the  man 

before !     I  did   think  of  asking,   but  fancied — a  lot  of 

things;  that  you  didn't  wish  it  and  he  was  shy.  Ah,  Lord  1 
what  miseries  happen  from  our  not  lookiog  straight  at  facts! 
We  can't  deny  she's  his  wife  now." 

"  Not  if  we  give  him  the  money." 

Rhoda  spoke  of  '  the  money  '  as  if  she  had  taken  heated 
metal  into  her  mouth. 

"All  the  more  likely,"  said  Robert.  "  Let  him  rest.  Had 
you  your  eyes  on  him  svhen  he  saw  me  in  the  vestry?  For 
years  that  man  has  considered  me  his  deadly  enemy,  because 
I  punished  him  once.  What  a  scene  !  I'd  have  given  a 
limb,  I'd  have  given  my  lite,  to  have  saved  you  from  that 
scene,  Rhoda." 

She  replied:  "  [f  my  sister  could  have  been  spared!  I 
ought  to  know  what  wickedness  there  is  in  the  world.  It's 
ignorance  that  leads  to  the  unhappincss  of  girls." 

"  Uo  you  know  that  I'm  a  drunkard  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  He  called  me  something  like  it ;  and  he  said  something 
like  the  truth.  Thei-e's  the  sting.  Set  me  adrift,  and  I 
drink  hard.     He  spoke  a  fact,  and  I  couldn't  answer  him." 

"  Yes,  it's  the  truth  that  gives  such  pain,"  said  Rhoda, 
shivering.  "  How  can  girls  know  what  men  are  ":*  I  could 
not  guess  that  you  had  any  fault.  This  man  was  so  respectful; 
he  sat  modestly  in  the  room  when  I  saw  him  last  night — last 
night,  was  it  ?  I  thought,  '  he  has  been  brought  up  with 
sisters  and  a  mother.'  And  he  has  been  kind  to  my  dear, 
and  all  we  thought  love  for  her,  was — shameful!  shameful!" 

She  pressed  her  eyelids,  continuing :  "He  shall  have  the 
money — he  shall  have  it.  We  will  not  be  in  debt  to  such  a 
man.  He  has  saved  my  sister  from  one  as  bad — who  offered 
it  to  be  rid  of  her.  Oh,  men  ! — you  heard  that  ? — and  now 
pretends  to  love  her.  I  think  1  dream.  How  could  sho  ever 
have  looked  happily  on  that  hateful  face  ?  " 

"  Ho  would  be  thought  handsome,"  said  Robert,  marvelling 
bow  it  was  that  Rhoda  could  have  looked  on  Sedgett  for  an 


DAHLIA  GOES  HOME.  331 

instant  -without  readings  his  villanous  nature.  "  I  don't  wish 
you  to  regret  anything  you  have  done  or  you  may  do,  Khoda. 
But  this  is  "what  made  me  cry  out  "when  1  looked  on  that 
man,  and  knew  it  was  he  -who  had  come  to  be  Dahlia's 
husband.  He'll  be  torture  to  her.  The  man's  temper,  his 
habits — but  you  may  "well  say  you  are  ignorant  of  us  men. 
Keep  so.  What  ]  do  "with  all  my  soul  entreat  of  you  is — to 
get  a  hiding-place  for  your  sister.  Never  let  him  take  her 
oft.  There's  such  a  thing  as  hell  upon  earth.  If  she  goes 
away  "with  him  she'll  know  it.  His  black  temper  "won't  last-. 
He  "will  come  for  her,  and  claim  her." 

"  He  shall  have  money."     Rhoda  said  no  more. 

On  a  side-table  in  the  room  stood  a  remai'kable  pile,  under 
cover  of  a  shawl.  Robert  lifted  the  shaw^l,  and  beheld  the 
"wooden  boxes,  one  upon  the  other,  containing  Master  Gam- 
mon's and  ill's.  Sumfit's  rival  savings,  which  they  had 
presented  to  Dahlia,  in  the  belief  that  her  husband  was 
under  a  cloud  of  monetary  misfortune  that  had  kept  her 
proud  heart  from  her  old  fiiends.  The  farmer  had  brought 
the  boxes  and  left  them  there,  forgetting  them. 

"  I  fancy,"  said  Robei-t,  "  we  might  open  these." 

•'  It  may  be  a  little  help,"  said  Rhoda. 

"  A  very  little,"  Robert  thought;  but,  to  relieve  the  oppres- 
sion of  the  subject  they  had  been  discussing,  he  forthwith 
set  about  procuring  tools,  with  which  he  split  first  the  box 
which  proved  to  be  Mrs.  Sumfit's,  for  it  contained,  amid 
six  gold  sovereigns  and  much  silver  and  pence,  a  slip  of 
paper,  whereon  was  inscribed,  in  a  handwriting  identified  by 
Rhoda  as  peculiar  to  the  loving  woman  — 

"And  sweetest  love  to  lier  ever  dear.** 

Altogether  the  sum  amounted  to  nine  pounds,  three  shil- 
lings, and  a  farthing. 

"Now  for  Master  Gammon — he's  heavy,"  said  Robert; 
and  he  made  the  savings  of  that  unpretentious  veteran  bare. 
Master  Gammon  had  likewise  written  his  word.  It  was 
discovered  on  the  blank  space  of  a  bit  of  newspaper,  and 
looked  much  as  if  a  fat  lobworm  had  plunged  himself  into  a 
bowl  of  ink,  and  in  his  literary  delirium  had  twisted  uneasily 
to  the  verge  of  the  paper.     With  difficulty  they  deciphered  : 

*'  Compleniens." 


332  BEIODA  FLEMfNO. 

Robert  sang',  *'  Bravo,  Gammon!"  and  counted  tho  hoard. 
All  was  in  copper  coinage,  Lycurganand  severe,  and  reached 
tlie  sum  of  one  pound,  scventeon  shillings.  There  were  a 
niunbcr  of  farthings  of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  and  Robert  sup- 
posed them  to  be  of  value.  "  So  that,  as  yet,  we  can't  say 
who's  tbe  winner,"  be  observed. 

Rhoda  was  in  tears. 

"  Ro  kind  to  liim,  please,  when  you  see  him,"  she  whis- 
pered.    The  smaller  gift  had  tniicbed  her  heart  more  tcndci-ly. 

"  [vind  to  the  old  man  !"  Robert  laughed  gently,  and  tied 
the  two  hoards  in  separate  ^Japers,  which  he  stowed  into  one 
box,  and  fixed  under  string.  "This  amount,  put  all  in  cue, 
doesn't  go  far,  Rlioda." 

"  iSTo,"  said  she :  "  I  hope  we  may  not  need  it."  She 
broke  out:  "Dear,  good,  humble  friends!  The  poor  are 
God's  own  people.  Christ  has  said  so.  This  is  good,  this 
is  blessed  money!"  Rhoda's  cheeks  flushed  to  their  orange- 
rounded  swarthy  red,  and  her  dark  eyes  had  the  fervour  of 
an  exalted  earnestness.  "  They  are  my  friends  for  ever. 
They  save  me  from  impiety.  They  help  me,  as  if  God  had 
answered  my  pra^'^er.  Poor  pennies !  and  the  old  man  not 
knowing  where  his  days  may  end  !  He  gives  all — he  must 
liave  true  faith  in  Providence.  May  it  come  back  to  him 
multiplied  a  thousand  fold  !  While  1  have  strength  to  work, 
the  bread  1  earn  shall  be  shared  with  him.  Old  man,  old 
man,  I  love  you — how  I  love  you  !  You  drag  me  out  of  deep 
ditches.  Oh,  good  and  dear  old  man,  if  God  takes  me  first, 
may  I  have  some  power  to  intercede  for  you,  if  you  haveever 
sinned!  Everybody  in  tho  world  is  not  wicked.  There  are 
some  who  go  the  ways  directed  by  the  Bible.  I  owe  you 
more  than  1  can  ever  pay." 

She  sobbed,  but  told  Robert  it  was  not  foi- sorrow.  He, 
longing  to  catch  her  in  his  arms,  and  ])unctiliou3  not  to  over- 
step the  duties  of  his  ])0.st  of  giuirdian,  could  merely  sit  by 
listening,  and  reflecting  ou  her  as  a  strange  Biblical  girl, 
with  Hebrew  hardness  of  resolution,  and  Hebrew  csaltalion 
of  soul;  beautiful,  too,  as  tho  dark  women  of  the  East.  He 
admitted  to  hin)self  that  ho  never  could  have  taken  it  on  his 
conscience  to  subdue  a  human  ci-eature's  struggling  will,  as 
Rhoda  had  not  hesitated  to  do  with  Dahlia,  and  to  command 
her  acti(jns,  and  accept  all  imminent  respui.  .il)ilitics  ;  not 
quailing  with  any  outcry,  or  abandonment  of  strength,  when 


DAHLIA  GOES  HOME.  333 

the  sTiocTc  of  tliat  revelation  in  the  vestry  came  violently  on 
her.  Rhoda,  seeing  there  that  it  was  a  brute,  and  not  a  mnn, 
into  whose  hand  she  had  perilously  forced  her  sister's,  stood 
steadying  her  nerves  to  act  promptly  with  advantage ;  less 
like  a  woman,  Robert  thought,  than  a  creature  born  for  ha  ttle. 
And  she  appeared  to  be  still  undaunted,  full  of  her  scheme, 
and  could  ci'y  without  fear  of  floods.  Something  of  the 
chivalrous  restraint  he  put  upon  the  motions  of  his  heart, 
sprang  "rom  the  shadowy  awe  which  overhung  that  impres- 
sible organ.  This  feeling  likewise  led  him  to  place  a  blind 
reliance  on  her  sagacity  and  sense  of  what  was  just  and  what 
should  be  performed. 

"  You  promised  this  money  to  him,"  he  said,  half  thinking 
it  incredible. 

"  On  Monday,"  said  Ehoda. 

"You  must  get  a  promise  from  him  in  return." 

She  answered  :  "Why  ?  when  he  could  break  it  the  instant 
he  cared  to,  and  a  promise  would  tempt  him  to  it.  He  does 
not  love  her." 

"No;  he  does  not  love  her,"  said  Robert,  meditating 
whether  he  could  possibly  convey  an  idea  of  the  character  of 
men  to  her  innocent  mind. 

"  He  tlung  her  off.  Thank  heaven  tor  it !  I  should  have 
been  punished  too  much — too  much.  He  has  saved  her 
from  the  perils  of  temptation.  He  shall  be  paid  for  it.  To 
see  her  taken  away  by  such  a  man  !  Ah  !"  She  shuddered 
as  at  sight  of  a  hideous  pit. 

But  Robert  said  :  "  I  know  him,  Rhoda.  That  was  his 
temper.  It'll  last  just  four-and-twenty  hours,  and  then  we 
shall  need  all  our  strength  and  cunning.  My  dear,  it  would 
be  the  death  of  Dahlia.  You've  seen  the  rnan  as  he  is. 
Take  it  for  a  warning.  She  belongs  to  him.  That's  the 
law,  human  and  divine." 

"  Not  when  he  has  flung  hei-  off,  Robert  ?"  Rhoda  cried 
piteously. 

"Let  us  take  advantage  of  that.  He  did  fiinsr  her  off, 
spat  at  us  all,  and  showed  the  blackest'  hellish  plot  1  ever  in 
my  life  heard  of.  He's  not  the  Avorst  sinner,  scoundrel  as 
he  is.  Poor  girl  !  poor  soul  !  a  hard  lot  foi*  women  in  this 
world  !  Rhoda,  I  suppose  1  may  breakfast  with  you  in  the 
morning?  1  hear  Major  Waring's  knock  below.  I  want  a 
man  to  talk  to." 


334  ERODA.  FLEMI^:0. 

"  Do  come,  Robert,"  Rhoda  s.aid,  and  crave  "him  "her  hnn(L 
Ho  strove  to  fompiclicml  why  it  was  tliat  V>er  liand  was 
moi-oly  a  hand,  and  no  nun-e  to  liiin  just  tUca;  squee/.t'd  the 
cold  liugors,  and  left  her. 


CEAPTER,  XL. 


A  FREXK  OF  THE  M0N'EV-0CM(1\,  TIIM  M\Y  TIKVE  BEKN 
ANl'IClPATliD. 

So  long  as  -we  do  not  know  that  we  are  performing  any 
remarkable  feat,  we  may  walk  upon  the  narrowest  of  planks 
between  precipices  with  perfect  security  ;  but  when  we 
suffer  our  minds  to  eye  the  chasm  underneath,  we  begin  to 
be  in  danger,  and  we  are  iu  very  great  fear  of  losing  our 
equal  balance  the  moment  we  admit  the  insidious  reflection 
that  other  men,  placed  as  we  are,  would  probably  topple 
headlong  over.  Anthony  Hackbut,  of  Boyne's  Bank,  had 
been  giving  himself  up  latterly  to  this  fatal  comparison. 
The  hour  when  gold  was  entrusted  to  his  charge  found  him 
feverish  and  irritable.^  He  asked  himself  whether  he  was  a 
mere  machine  to  transfer  money  from  spot  to  spot,  and  he 
spurned  at  the  pittance  bestowed  upon  honesty  in  this  life. 
"Where  could  Boyne's  Bank  discover  again  such  an  honest 
man  as  he  ?  And  because  he  was  honest  he  was  poor  !  The 
consideration  that  we  alone  are  capable  of  doing  the  un- 
paralleled thing  may  sometimes  inspire  us  with  fortitude; 
but  this  will  depend  largely  upon  the  antecedent  nioi-al 
trials  of  a  man.  It  is  a  temptation  when  we  look  on  what 
we  accomplish  at  all  in  that  light.  The  temptation  being 
inbred,  is  commonly  a  proof  of  internal  corruption.  "  If  I 
lake  a  step,  suppose  now,  to  the  right,  or  to  the  left," 
Anthony  had  got  into  the  habit  of  saying,  while  he  made 
his  course,  and  after  he  had  deposited  his  charge  ho  would 
wipe  his  moist  forehead,  in  a  state  of  wretched  exultation 
over  his  renowned  trustworthiness.  He  had  done  the  thing 
for  years.  And  Avhat  did  the  people  in  the  streets  know 
about  him  ?  Formerly,  he  had  used  to  regard  the  people  in 
the  streets,  and  their  opinions,  with  a  voluptuous  contempt; 
but  he  was  no  longer  wrapt   in  sweet   calculations    of    his 


A  FREAK  OF  THE  MONEY-DEMON.  335 

Bavings,  and  his  chances,  and  his  connection  with  a  mighty 
Bank.     The  virtue  had  gone  out  of  him.     Yet  he  had  not 
the  slightest  appetite  for  other  men's  money ;    no  hunger, 
nor  any  definite  notion    of  enjoyment  to    be  derived    from 
money  not   his   own.       Imagination    misled    the    old    man. 
There  have  been  spotless  reputations  gained  in  the  service 
of  virtue  before  now  ;  and  chaste  and  beautiful  persons  have 
■walked  the  narrow   plank,  envied  and   admired  ;   and  they 
have  ultimately  tottered  and  all  but  fallen  ;  or  they  have 
quite  fallen,  from  no  worse  an  incitement  than  curiosity. 
Cold  curiosity,  as  the  directors  of  our  human  constitution 
tell  us,  is,  in  the  colder  condition  of  our  blood,  a  betraying 
vice,  leading  to  sin  at  a  period  when  the  fruits  of  sin  afford 
the  smallest  satisfaction.     It  is,  in  fact,  our  last  probation, 
and  one  of  our  latest  delusions.     If  that  is  passed  success- 
fully,  we  may  really    be    pronounced   as    of    some    worth. 
Anthony  wished  to  give  a  light  indulgence  to  his  curiosity  ; 
say,  by  running  away  and  over  London  Bridge  on  one   side, 
and  back  on  the  other,  hugging  the  money.     For  two  weeks, 
he  thought  of  this  absurd  performance    as  a  comical    and 
agreeable  diversion.     How  would  he  feel  when  going  in  the 
direction  of  the  Surrey  hills  ?     And  how,  when  returning, 
and   when    thei-e  was  a  prospect  of  the  Bank,   where  the 
money  was  to  be  paid  in,  being  shut  ?     Supposing  that  he 
was  a  minute  behind  his  time,  would  the  Bank-doors  remain 
open,  in  expectation  of  him  ?     And  if  the  money  was  not 
paid  in,  what  Avould  be  thought  ?     What  would  be  thought 
at  Bo3-ne's,  if,  the  next   day,  he  was    late  in  making  his 
appearance  ? 

'Hulloa!  Hackbut,  how's  this?'— 'I'm  a  bit  late,  sir, 
morning.' — '  Late  !  you  were  late  yesterday  evening,  weren't 
you  ? ' — '  Why,  sir,  the  way  the  clerks  at  that  Bank  of 
Mortimer  and  Pennycuick's  rush  away  from  business  and 
close  the  doors  after  'em,  as  if  their  day  began  at  four  p.m., 
and  business  was  botheration : — it's  a  disgrace  to  the  City 
o'  London.  And  I  beg  pardon  for  being  late,  but  never 
sleeping  a  wink  all  night  for  fear  about  this  money,  I  am 
late  this  morning,  I  humbly  confess.  When  I  got  to  the 
Bank,  the  doors  were  shut.  Our  clock's  correct;  that  I 
know.  My  belief,  sir,  is,  the  clerks  at  Mortimer  and  Penny- 
cuick's put  on  the  time.' — '  Oh  !  we  must  have  this  inc^uired 
into.' 


33G  i?nonA  rrrMixG. 

Anthony  dramatizorl  the  fairical  scene  wliich  lie  imnci'inod 
between  himself  and  Air.  Seijiiin,  tlic  head  clerk  at  IJoynu's, 
with  immenso  relish  ;  and  terminated  it  hy  establisliinVj  liis 
re|iutation  for  honesty  hiq:her  than  ever  at  the  Bank,  after 
which  violent  exercise  of  his  fancy,  the  old  man  sank  into  a 
diilness  diirini^  several  days.  The  farmer  slept  at  his 
lodgings  for  one  nic^ht,  and  talked  of  money,  and  of  selling 
his  farm;  and  half  iiintcd  that  it  wonld  be  a  brotherly  ])ro- 
ceedine:  on  Anthony's  part  to  buy  it,  and  hold  it,  so  as  to 
keep  it  in  the  family.  The  farmer's  deep  belief  in  the 
existence  of  his  hoards  always  did  AnUiony  peculiar  mis- 
chief. Anthony  grew  conscious  of  a  giddiness,  and  all  tho 
ne.'ct  day  ho  was  scarcely  fit  for  his  work.  Bat  the  day 
following  that  he  was  calm  and  attentive.  Two  bags  of 
gold  were  placed  in  his  hands,  and  he  walked  with  caution 
down  the  steps  of  the  Bank,  turned  the  corner,  and  went 
strai'jht  on  to  the  West,  never  once  hesitating,  or  casting  a 
tho\ight  behind  upon  Mortimer  and  Pennycuick's.  lie  liad 
not,  in  truth,  one  that  was  loose  to  be  cast.  All  his  thoughts 
were  boiling  in  his  head,  obfuscating  him  with  a  prodigious 
Btcam,  through  which  he  beheld  the  city  surging,  and  tho 
streets  curving  like  lines  in  water,  and  the  people  mixing 
and  passing  into  and  out  of  one  another  in  an  astonishing 
manner — no  face  distinguishable:  the  whole  thick  multitude 
appearing  to  be  stirred  like  glue  in  a  gallipot.  The  only 
distinct  thought  which  he  had  sprang  from  a  fear  that  tho 
dishonest  ruttians  would  try  to  steal  his  gold,  and  he  hugged 
it,  and  groaned  to  see  that  villany  was  abroad.  Marvellous, 
too,  that  the  clocks  on  the  churches,  all  the  way  along  tho 
Westward  thoroughfare,  stuck  at  the  hour  when  Banks  are 
closed  to  busiju'ss  !  It  was  some  time,  or  a  pretence  at  some 
time,  before  the  minute-hands  surmounted  that  dWliculty. 
Having  done  so,  they  rushed  ahead  to  tho  ensuing  hour  with 
the  mad  precipitation  of  pantomimic  machinery.  The  sight 
of  them  presently  standing  on  the  hour,  like  a  sentinel  ju-e- 
Bonting  arms,  Avas  stai'tling— lau-hahle.  Anthony  cuuld 
not  have  lilippcd  with  his  fingers  fifty  times  in  the  interval ; 
he  was  KU)-e  of  it,  "or  not  much  more,"  he  said.  So  tho 
City  was  shut  to  him  behind  ii'ou  bars. 

Up  in  the  AVest  there  is  not  so  much  to  be  dreaded  from 
the  rai>acity  of  men.  You  do  not  hear  of  such  alarming 
burglaries  there  every  day  ;  every   hand  is  not  at  another's 


A  FREAK  OF  TEE  MONEY-DEMON.  337 

throat  there,  or  in  another's  pocket,  at  least,  not  until  after 
nightfall;  and  when  the  dark  should  come  on,  Anthony  ha, I 
determined  to  make  for  his  own  quarter  with  all  speed. 
Darkness  is  horrible  in  foreign  places,  but  foreign  places  are 
not  so  accusing  to  you  by  daylight. 

The  Park  was  vastly  pleasant  to  the  old  man. 

"Ah!"  he  sniffed  "country  air,"  and  betook  himself  to  a 
seat.  "  Extraordinary,"  he  thought,  "  what  little  people 
they  look  on  their  horses  and  in  their  carriages !  That's 
the  aristocracy,  is  it  !"  The  aristocracy  appeared  oddly 
diminutive  to  him.  He  sneered  at  the  aristocracy,  but, 
beholding  a  policeman,  became  stolid  of  aspect.  The  police- 
man was  a  connecting  link  with  his  City  life,  the  true  lord 
of  his  fearful  soul.  Though  the  money-bags  were  under  his 
arm,  beneath  his  buttoned  coat,  it  required  a  deep  pause 
before  he  understood  what  he  had  done  ;  and  then  the  Park 
began  to  dance  and  curve  like  the  streets,  and  there  was  a 
singular  curtseying  between  the  heavens  and  the  earth.  He 
had  to  hold  his  money-bags  tight,  to  keep  them  from 
plunging  into  monstrous  gulfs.  "  I  don't  remember  that 
I've  taken  a  drink  of  any  sort,"  he  said,  "  since  I  and  the 
old  farmer  took  our  turn  down  in  the  Docks.  How's  this  ?" 
He  seemed  to  rock.  He  was  near  upon  indulging  in  a  fit  of 
terror;  but  the  impolicy  of  it  withheld  him  from  any  demon- 
stration, save  an  involuntary  spasmodic  ague.  When  this 
had  passed,  his  eyesight  and  sensations  grew  clearer,  and  he 
sat  in  a  mental  doze,  looking  at  things  with  quiet  animal 
observation.  His  recollection  of  the  state,  after  a  lapse  of 
minutes,  was_pleasurable.  The  necessity  for  motion,  how- 
ever, set  him  on  his  feet,  and  off  he  went,  still  Westward, 
out  of  the  Park,  and  into  streets.  He  trotted  at  a  good 
pace.  Suddenly  came  a  call  of  his  name  in  his  ear,  and  he 
th]-ew  up  one  arm  in  self-defence. 

"  Uncle  Anthony,  don't  you  know  me  ?" 

"  Eh  ?  I  do  ;  to  be  sure  I  do,"  he  answered,  peering 
dimly  upon  Ehoda  :  "  I'm  always  meeting  one  of  you." 

"  I've  been  down  in  the  City,  trying  to  find  you  all  day, 
uncle.  I  meet  you — I  might  have  missed !  It  is  direction 
from  heaven,  for  I  prayed." 

Anthony  muttered,  "  I'm  out  for  a  holiday." 

"This" — Ehoda  pointed  to  a  house — "is  where  I  am 
lodointi'.'* 


338  EHOPA  FLEMING. 

*'  Oh  !"  said  Anthony  ;  "  and  how's  your  family  ?" 

Rhoda  perceived  that  lie  was  rather  distrauirlit.  After 
gi'cat  persuasion,  she  got  him  to  go  u])stairs  with  her. 

"  Only  for  two  seconds,"  he  stipulated.     "  I  can't  sit." 

"You  will  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  me,  uncle  ?" 

"  No ;  I  don't  thiidv  I'm  equal  to  tea." 

«  Not  with  Rhoda  r" 

*'  It's  a  name  in  Scripture,"  said  Anthony,  and  he  drew 
nearer  to  hci*.  "  You'i-e  comfortable  and  dark  here,  my 
dear.  How  did  you  come  here  ?  What's  happened  ?  You 
won't  surprise  me." 

"  I'm  only  stopping  for  a  day  or  two  in  London,  uncle." 

"  Ah  !  a  "wicked  place  ;  that  it  is.  No  wickeder  than 
other  places,  I'll  be  bound.  Well ;  I  must  bo  trotting.  I 
can't  sit,  I  tell  you.     You're  as  dark  here  as  a  gaol." 

"  Let  me  ring  for  candles,  uncle." 

"  No  ;  I'm  going." 

She  tried  to  touch  him,  to  draw  him  to  a  chair.  The  agile 
old  man  bounded  away  from  her,  and  she  had  to  pacify  him 
submissively  before  he  would  consent  to  be  seated.  The 
tea-service  was  brought,  and  Rhoda  made  tea,  and  tilled  a 
cup  for  him.  Anthony  began  to  enjoy  the  repose  of  the 
room.  But  it  made  the  money-bags  alien  to  him,  and 
serpents  in  his  bosom.  Fretting  on  his  chair,  he  cried : 
*'  Well  !  well !  what's  to  talk  about  ?  We  can't  drink  tea 
and  not  talk!" 

Rhoda  deliberated,  and  then  said :  "  Uncle,  I  think  you 
liave  always  loved  me." 

It  seemed  to  him  a  merit  that  he  should  have  loved  her. 
He  caught  at  the  idea. 

"  So  I  have,  Rhoda,  my  dear  ;  I  have.     I  do." 

"You  do  love  me,  dear  uncle  !" 

"  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  Rhoda — my  Dody,  I  don't 
think  ever  I've  loved  anybody  else.  Never  loved  e'er  a 
young  woman  in  my  life.     As  a  young  man." 

"  Toll  mo,  uncle ;  are  you  not  very  rich  ?" 

"  No,  I  ain't ;  not  '  very  '  ;  not  at  all." 

"  You  must  not  tell  untruths,  uncle." 

"I  don't,"  said  Anthony;  only,  too  doggedly  to  instil  con- 
viction. 

"  I  have  always  felt,  uncle,  that  you  love  money  too 
much.     What  is  the  value  of  money,  except  to  give  comfort, 


A  FEEAK  OF  THE  MONET-DEMON.  339 

and  help  yon  to  be  a  blessing  to  others  in  their  trouble  ? 
Does  not  God  lend  it  you  for  that  purpose  ?  It  is  most  true  ! 
And  if  you  make  a  store  of  it,  it  will  only  be  unhappiness  to 
yourself.  Uncle,  you  love  me.  I  am  in  great  trouble  for 
money." 

Anthony  made  a  long  arm  over  the  projection  of  his  coat, 
and  clasped  it  securely ;  sullenly  refusing  to  answer. 

"  Dear  uncle ;  hear  me  out.  I  come  to  you,  because  I 
know  you  are  rich.  I  was  on  my  way  to  youi*  lodgings  when 
we  met ;  we  wei'e  thrown  together.  You  have  more  money 
than  you  know  what  to  do  with.  I  am  a  beggar  to  you  for 
monev.  I  have  never  asked  before  ; — I  never  shall  ask  again. 
Now  I  pray  for  your  help.  My  life,  and  the  life  dearer  to 
me  than  any  other,  depend  on  you.  Will  you  help  me, 
uncle  Anthony  ?     Yes  !" 

"IS'o!"  Anthony  shouted. 

"Yes!  yes!" 

*'  Yes,  if  I  can.  ISTo,  if  I  can't.  And  '  can't'  it  is.  So, 
it's  '  No.'  " 

Rhoda's  bosom  sank,  but  only  as  a  wave  in  the  sea-liko 
energy  of  her  spirit. 

"  Uncle,  you  must." 

Anthony  was  restrained  from  jumping  up  and  running 
away  forthwith  by  the  peace  which  was  in  the  room,  and 
the  dread  of  being  solitary  after  he  had  tasted  of  companion- 
ship. 

"  You  have  money,  uncle.  You  are  rich.  You  must  help 
me.  Don't  you  ever  think  what  it  is  to  be  an  old  man,  and 
no  one  to  love  you  and  be  gi'ateful  to  you  ?  Why  do  you 
cross  your  anns  so  close  ?" 

Anthony  denied  that  he  crossed  his  arms  closely. 

Rhoda  pointed  to  his  arms  in  evidence  ;  and  he  snarled 
out :  "  There,  now ;  'cause  I'm  supposed  to  have  saved  a 
trifle,  I  ain't  to  sit  as  I  like.  It's  dowm-ight  too  bad !  It's 
shocking!" 

But,  seeing  that  he  did  not  uncross  his  arms,  and  remained 
bunched  up  defiantly,  Rhoda  silently  observed  him.  She 
felt  that  money  was  in  the  room. 

"  Don't  let  it  be  a  curse  to  you,"  she  said.  And  her  voice 
was  hoarse  with  agitation. 

"  What  ?"     Anthony  asked.     "  What's  a  curse  ?'* 

«  That." 

z2 


MO  RnODA  FLEMIXO. 

Did  she  know  ?  Had  rIic  guessed  ?  Ilor  finger  was  laid 
in  a  line  at  the  bags.     Had  she  smelt  tlic  gold  ? 

"It  will  be  a  curse  to  you,  uncle.  Death  is  coming. 
What's  money  then  ?  Uncle,  uncross  your  arms.  You  are 
afraid;  you  dare  not  You.  carry  it  about;  you  have  no 
cnnlidcnce  anywhere.  It  cats  your  licart.  Look  at  me.  I 
have  nothing  to  conceal.  Can  you  imitate  me,  and  tlii-ow 
your  hands  out — so  ?  Why,  uncle,  will  you  let  me  bo 
ashamed  of  you  ?  You  have  the  money  tlicj-e.  You  cannot 
deny  it.  Me  crying  to  you  for  help  1  What  have  we  talked 
together  ? — tliat  we  would  sit  in  a  country  house,  and  1  was 
to  look  to  the  flower-beds,  and  always  have  dishes  of  green 
peas  for  you — plenty,  in  June;  and  you  were  to  let  the 
village  boys  know  what  a  tongue  you  have,  if  they  made  a 
clatter  of  their  sticks  along  the  garden  rails  ;  and  you  were 
to  drink  your  tea,  looking  on  agi-een  and  the  sunset.  Uncle  ! 
Poor  old,  good  old  soul!  You  Tiiean  kindly.  You  must  be 
kind.  A  day  will  make  it  too  late.  You  have  the  money 
there.  You  get  oldrr  and  older  every  minute  with  tryiiig  to 
refuse  me.  You  know  that  I  can  make  you  liappy.  I  have 
the  power,  and  1  have  the  will.  Help  me,  I  say,  in  my 
great  trouble.  That  money  is  a  burden.  You  are  forced  to 
carry  it  about,  for  fear.  You  look  guilty  as  you  go  running 
in  the  streets,  because  you  fear  everybody.  Do  good  with 
it.  Let  it  be  money  with  a  blessing  on  it !  It  will  save  ua 
fi'om  horrid  misery!  fj-om  death!  from  toi-fui'e  and  death! 
Think,  uncle  !  look,  uncle  !  You  with  the  money — me  wanting 
it.  1  pray  to  heaven,  and  I  meet  you,  and  you  have  it.  Will 
you  say  that  you  refuse  to  give  it,  when  I  see — when  I  show 
you,  you  are  led  to  meet  me  and  help  me?  Open; — put 
down  that  arm." 

Against  this  storm  of  mingled  supplication  and  shadowy 
menace,  Anthony  held  out  with  all  outwai'd  firmness  until, 
when  biilding  him  to  put  down  his  arm,  she  touched  the  arm. 
commandingly,  and  it  fell  paralyzed. 

Rhoda's  eyes  weienot  beautiful  as  they  fixed  on  the  object 
of  her  quest.  In  this  they  were  of  the  character  of  her 
mission.  She  was  dealing  with  an  evil  thing,  and  had 
chosen  to  ai-t  accordinc:  to  her  liylit,  and  bv  the  counsel  of 
her  combative  and  forceful  tein])er.  At  each  step  new  difH- 
cultios  had  to  be  encountered  by  frcsli  contrivances;  and 
money  now—  money  alone  had  become  the  speciii  j  for  jiresent 


A  FREAK  OF  THE  MONEY-DEMON.  341 

nse.  Tliere  was  a  limitation  of  her  spiritual  vision  to  aught 
save  to  money ;  and  the  money  being  bared  to  her  eyes,  a 
frigTitful  gleam  of  eagerness  shot  from  them.  Her  hands 
met  Anthony's  in  a  common  grasp  of  the  money-bags. 

"  It's  not  mine  !"     Anthony  ci'ied,  in  desperation. 

"  Whose  money  is  it  ?"  said  Rhoda,  and  caught  up  her 
hands  as  from  fire. 

"My  Lord  !"  Anthony  moaned,  "  if  you  don't  speak  like  a 
Court  o'  Justice.     Hear  yourself !" 

"  Is  the  money  yours,  uncle  "?" 

**It is,"  and  'isn't'  hung  in  the  balance. 

"  It  is  not  ?"  Rhoda  dressed  the  question  for  him  in  the 
terror  of  contemptuous  horror. 

"  It  is.  I — of  course  it  is  ;  how  could  it  help  being  mine? 
My  money  ?  Yes.  What  sort  o'  thing's  that  to  ask — 
whether  what  I've  got's  mine  or  yours,  or  somebody  else's  ? 
Ha!" 

"And  you  say  you  are  not  rich,  uncle?" 

A  charming  congratulatory  smile  was  addressed  to  him, 
and  a  shake  of  the  head  of  tender  i-eproach  irresistible  to  his 
vanity. 

"  Rich  !  with  a  lot  o'  calls  on  me ;  everybody  wantin'  to 
borrow — I'm  rich!  And  now  you  coming  to  me!  You 
women  can't  biing  a  guess  to  bear  upon  the  right  nature  o' 
money." 

"  Uncle,  you  will  decide  to  help  me,  I  know." 

She  said  it  with  a  staggering  assurance  of  manner. 

"  Hoio  do  you  know  ?"  cried  Anthony. 

"  Why  do  you  carry  so  much  money  about  with  you  in 
bags,  uncle  ?" 

"  Hear  it,  my  dear."     He  simulated  miser's  joy. 

"  Ain't  that  music  ?  Talk  of  operas  !  Hear  that ;  don't 
it  talk  ?  don't  it  chink  ?  don't  it  sing  ?"  He  groaned  "  Oh, 
Lord!"  and  fell  back. 

This  transition  from  a  state  of  intensest  rapture  to  the 
depths  of  pain  alarmed  her. 

*•  Nothing  ;  it's  nothing."  Anthony  anticipated  her  in- 
quiries.    "  They  bags  is  so  heavy." 

"  Then  why  do  you  carry  them  about  ?" 

"  Perhaps  it's  heart  disease,"  said  Anthony,  and  grinned| 
for  he  knew  the  soundness  of  his  health. 

"  You  are  very  pale,  uncle." 


342  EnODA  FLEMTNG. 


{( 


•  llh  ?    yon  don't  say  that  ?" 

"  You  are  awfully  white,  dear  nnclo.** 

"I"ll  look  in  the  glass,"  said  Anthony.  "ISTo,  I  won't." 
He  sank  baek  in  his  chair.  "  Khoda,  we're  all  sinners,  ain't 
Ave  ?  All — every  man  and  woman  of  us,  and  baby,  too. 
That's  a  comfort ;  yes,  it  is  a  comfort.  It's  a  tremendous 
comfort — shuts  mouths.  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say — 
some  bigger  sinners  than  others.  If  they're  sorry  for  it, 
though,  Avhat  then  ?     They  can  i-epont,  can't  they  f" 

"  They  must  undo  any  harm  they  may  have  done.  Sinners 
are  not  to  repent  only  in  words,  uncle." 

"  I've  been  feeling  lately,"  he  murmured. 

Rhoda  expected  a  miser's  confession. 

"  I've  been  feeling,  the  last  two  or  three  days,"  he  resumed. 

"AVhat,  uncle?" 

*'  Sort  of  taste  of  a  tremendous  nice  lemon  in  my  mouth, 
my  dear,  and  liked  it,  till  all  of  a  sudden  I  swallowtd  it 
whole — such  a  gulp  !     I  felt  it  just  now.     I'm  all  right." 

"  Ko,  UTicle,"  said  Rhoda:  "you  are  not  all  right:  this 
money  makes  you  miserable.  It  does  ;  I  can  see  that  it  does. 
Now,  put  those  bags  in  my  hands.  For  a  minute,  try ;  it 
will  do  you  good.  Attend  to  me  ;  it  will.  Or,  let  me  have 
them.     They  are  poison  to  you.     You  don't  want  them." 

"  I  don't,"  cried  Anthony.  "  Upon  my  soul,  I  don't.  I 
don't  want  'em.  I'd  give — it  is  true,  my  dear,  I  don't  want 
'em.     They're  poison.' 

"They're  poison  to  you,"  said  Rhoda;  "they're  health, 
they're  life  to  me.  I  said,  '  My  uncle  Anthony  will  help  me. 
He  is  not — I  know  his  heart — he  is  not  a  miser.  Are  you  a 
miser,  uncle  ?'  " 

Her  hand  was  on  one  of  his  bags.  It  was  strenuously 
withheld  :  but  while  she  continued  speaking,  reiterating  the 
word  '  miser,"  the  hold  relaxed.  She  caught  the  heavy  bag 
away,  startled  by  its  Aveight. 

He  perceived  the  effect  produced  on  her,  and  cried  ;  "  aha! 
and  I've  been  carrying  two  of  'em — two  1" 

Rhoda  panted  in  her  excitement. 

"Now,  give  it  up,"  said  he.  She  retnnicd  it.  Ho  got  it 
against  his  breast  joylessly,  and  then  bade  her  to  try  the 
weight  of  the  two.  She  did  try  them,  and  Anthony  doated 
on  the  wonder  of  her  face. 

"Uncle,  see  what  riches  do.     You   fear  everybody — you 


A  FREAK  OF  THE  MONET-DEMON.  3-13 

fhint  there  is  no  secure  place — you  have  more  ?  Do  you 
carry  about  all  your  money  ?" 

"  ]N"o,"  he  chuckled  at  her  astonishment.  "  I've  .  .  . 
Tes.  I've  got  more  of  my  own."  Her  widened  eyes  intoxi- 
cated him.  "  More.  I've  saved.  I've  put  by.  Say,  I'm  an 
old  sinner.     What  'd  th'  old  farmer  say  now  ?     Do  you  love 

your  Uncle  Tony  ?     '  Old  Ant,'  they  call  me  down  at ," 

*  the  Bank,'  he  was  on  the  point  of  utterins;' ;  but  the  vision 
of  the  Bank  lay  terrific  in  his  recollection,  and,  summoned  at 
last,  would  not  be  wiped  away.  The  unbearable  picture 
swam  blinking  through  accumulating  clouds ;  remote  and 
minute  as  the  chief  scene  of  our  infancy,  but  commanding 
him  with  the  present  touch  of  a  mighty  arm  thrown  out. 
"  I'm  honest,"  he  cried.  "  I  always  have  been  honest.  I'm 
known  to  be  honest.  1  want  no  man's  money.  I've  got 
money  of   my  own.      I  hate  sin.     I  hate  sinners.     I'm  an 

honest  man.    Ask  them,  down  at ,  Rhoda,  my  dear  !     I 

say,  don't  you  hear  me  ?  Rhoda,  you  think  I've  a  turn  for 
misering.  It's  a  beastly  mistake :  poor  savings,  and  such  a 
trouble  to  keep  honest  when  you're  poor ;  and  I've  done  it 
for  years,  spite  o'  temptation  't  'd  send  lots  o'  men  to  the 
hulks.  Safe  into  my  hand,  safe  out  o'  my  hands  !  Slip  once, 
and  there  ain't  mercy  in  men.  And  yOu  say,  '  I  had  a  whirl 
of  my  head,  and  went  round,  and  didn't  know  where  I  was 
for  a  minute,  and  forgot  the  place  I'd  to  go  to,  and  come  away 
to  think  in  a  quiet  part '...."  He  stopped  abruptly 
in  his  ravings.     "  You  give  me  the  money,  Rhoda  !'" 

She  handed  him  the  money-bags. 

He  seized  them,  and  dashed  them  to  the  ground  with  the 
force  of  madness.  Kneeling,  he  drew  out  his  penknife,  and 
slit  the  sides  of  the  bags,  and  held  them  aloft,  and  let  the 
gold  pour  out  in  torrents,  insulferable  to  the  sight ;  and 
uttering  laughter  that  clamoured  fierily  in  her  ears  for  long 
minutes  afterwards,  the  old  man  brandished  the  empty  bags, 
and  sprang  out  of  the  room. 

She  sat  dismajed  in  the  centre  of  a  heap  of  gold* 


344  EHODA  FLElIINOt 

CHAPTER  XLI. 
D  A  II  r-  I  a's    frenzy. 

Ox  tlio  ^^fondaj  evening,  Master  Gammon  Tvas  at  fho 
Btation  witli  the  cart.  Robert  and  Kliotla  were  a  train  later, 
but  the  old  man  seemed  to  be  unaware  of  any  dela}'.  and 
mildly  staring,  received  their  apologies,  and  nodded.  They 
asked  him  more  than  once  whether  all  was  well  at  the  Faim; 
to  which  he  replied  that  all  was  quite  well,  and  that  he  was 
never  otherwise.  About  half-an-hour  after,  on  the  road,  a 
gradual  dumb  chuckle  overcame  his  lower  features.  He 
flicked  the  horse  dubitatively,  and  turned  his  head,  first  to 
Robert,  next  to  Rhoda;  and  then  he  chuckled  aloud: 

"  The  last  o'  they  mel'ns  rotted  yest'day  afternoon  !" 

"Did  they?"  said  Robert.  "  You'll  have  to  get  fresh  seed, 
that's  all." 

Master  Gammon  merely  showed  his  spirit  to  be  negative. 

"  You've  been  playing  the  fool  with  the  sheep,"  Robert 
accused  him. 

It  hit  the  old  man  in  a  very  tender  part. 

"I  i)lay  the  tool  wi'  ne'er  a  sheep  alive,  Mr.  Robert. 
Animals  likes  their  'customed  food,  and  don't  like  no  other. 
I  never  changes  my  food,  nor  'd  e'er  a  sheep,  nor  'd  a  cow, 
nor  'd  a  bullock,  if  animals  was  masters.  I'd  as  lief  give  a 
sheep  beer,  as  offer  him,  free-handed — of  my  own  will,  that's 
to  Riiy — a  mel'n.     They  rots." 

Robert  smiled,  though  he  was  angry.  The  delicious  un- 
vexed  countrj-.talk  soothed  Rhoda,  and  she  looked  fondly  on 
the  old  man,  believing  that  he  could  not  talk  on  in  his  sedate 
way,  if  all  were  not  well  at  home. 

The  hills  of  the  beacon-ridge  beyond  her  home,  and  the 
line  of  stunted  firs,  which  she  had  named  '  the  old  bent 
beggarmen,'  were  visible  in  the  twilight.  Her  eyes  flew 
thoughtfully  far  over  them,  with  the  feeling  that  they  had 
long  known  what  would  come  to  her  and  to  those  dear  to  her, 
and  the  intense  hope  that  they  knew  no  more,  inasmuch  as 
they  bounded  her  sight. 

"  If  the  sheep  thrive,"  she  ventured  to  remark,  bo  that  the 
com^forling  old  themuji  might  be  kept  up. 


dahlia's  frenzy,  345 

"That's  the  particular  'if!'"  said  Robert,  signifying 
Bomething  that  had  to  be  leaped  over. 

Master  Gammon  performed  the  feat  with  agility. 

*'  Sheep  never  was  heartier,"  he  pi^onounced  emphatically, 

"Lots  of  applications  for  melon-seed,  Gammon  ?" 

To  this  the  veteran's  tardy  answer  was  :  "  More  fools  'n 
one  about,  I  reckon;"  and  Robert  allowed  him  the  victory 
implied  by  silence. 

"  And  there's  no  news  in  Wrexby  ':*  none  at  all  ?"  said 
Rhoda. 

A  direct  question  inevitably  plunged  Master  Gammon  so 
deep  amid  the  soundings  of  his  reflectiveness,  that  it  was 
the  surest  way  of  precluding  a  response  from  him ;  but  on 
this  occasion  his  honest  deliberation  bore  fruit. 

"  Squire  Blancove,  he's  dead." 

The  name  caused  Rhoda  to  shudder. 

"  Found  dead  in  's  bed,  Sat'day  morning,"  Master  Gammon 
added,  and,  warmed  upon  the  subject,  went  on  :  "  He's  that 
stiff,  folks  say,  that  stiff  he  is,  he'll  have  to  get  into  a  rounded 
cofiBn  :  he's  just  like  half  a  hoop.  Ho  was  all  of  a  heap, 
like.  Had  a  fight  with's  bolster,  and  got  th'  wust  of  it. 
But,  be't  the  seizure,  or  be't  gout  in's  belly,  he's  gone  clean 
dead.  And  he  wunt  buy  th'  Farm,  ne'thei*.  Shutter-s  is  all 
shut  up  at  the  Hall.  He'll  go  burying  about  Wednesday. 
Men  that  drinks  don't  keep." 

Rhoda  struck  at  her  brain  to  think  in  what  way  this  death 
could  work  and  show  like  a  punishment  of  the  heavens  upon 
that  one  wrong-doer;  but  it  was  not  manifest  as  a  flame  of 
wi-ath,  and  she  laid  herself  open  to  the  peace  of  the  fields 
and  the  hedgeways  stepping  by.  The  farm-house  came  in 
sight,  and  friendly  old  ^dam  and  Eve  turning  from  the 
moon.  She  heard  the  sound  of  water.  Every  sign  of  peace 
was  around  the  farm.  The  cows  had  been  milked  long  since  ; 
the  geese  were  quiet.  There  was  nothing  but  the  white 
board  above  the  garden-gate  to  speak  of  the  history  lying  in 
her  heart. 

They  found  the  farmer  sitting  alone,  shading  his  fore- 
head. Rhoda  kissed  his  cheeks  and  whispered  for  tidings 
of  Dahlia. 

"  Go  up  to  her,"  the  farmer  said. 

Rhoda  grew  very  chill.  She  went  upstairs  with  appre- 
hensive feet>  and  recognizing  Mrs.  Sumfit  outside  the  door 


.346  EnODA  FLEMING. 

of  Dahlia's  room,  embraced  her,  and  heard  her  say  that 
Dalilia  had  turned  tlie  key,  and  had  been  eryinf?  from  morn- 
ings to  nif^lits.  "  It  can't  hist,"  ^Irs.  Sumlit  s()l)l)ed  :  "  lone- 
some hysterics,  they's  death  to  come.  She's  falling  into  the 
trance.     I'll  go,  for  the  sight  o'me  shocks  her." 

Hhoda  knocked,  waited  patiently  till  her  persistent  repe- 
tition of  her  name  gained  her  admission.  SIio  beheld  her 
sister  indeed,  but  not  the  bioken  Dalilia  from  whom  she  had 
parted.  Dahlia  was  hard  to  her  caress,  and  crying,  ,."  Has 
lie  come  'r'"  stood  at  bay,  white-eyed,  and  looking  like  a  thing 
strunLT  with  wires. 

"  No,  dearest ;  he  will  not  trouble  you.     Have  no  fear." 

"  Arc  you  full  of  deceit  i""  said  Dahlia,  stamping  her  foot. 

"  I  hope  not,  my  sister." 

Dahlia  let  fall  a  long  quivering  breath.  She  went  to  her 
bed,  upon  which  her  mother's  Bible  was  lying,  and  taking 
it  in  her  two  hands,  held  it  under  Rhoda's  lips. 

"  Swear  upon  that  ?" 

"  What  am  I  to  swear  to,  dearest  ?" 

"  Swear  that  he  is  not  in  the  house." 

"  He  is  not,  my  own  sister ;  believe  me.  It  is  no  deceit. 
He  is  not.  He  will  not  trouble  you.  See;  I  kiss  the  Book, 
and  swear  to  you,  my  beloved  !  I  speak  truth.  Come  to 
me,  dear."  Rhoda  j^ut  her  arms  up  cntreatingly,  but 
Dahlia  stepped  back. 

"  You  are  not  deceitful  ?  You  are  not  cold  ?  You  are 
not  inhuman  ?  Inhuman  !  You  are  not  ?  You  are  not  ? 
Oh,  my  God  !      Look  at  her  !" 

The  toneless  voice  was  as  bitter  for  Rhoda  to  hear  as  the 
accusations.  She  replied,  Avith  a  poor  smile  :  "  I  am  only 
not  deceitful.     Come,  and  see.     You  will  nut  be  disturbed." 

"  What  am  I  tied  to  ?"  Dahlia  struggleil  feebly  as  again.st 
a  weight  of  chains.  "  Oh  !  what  am  I  tied  to  H  It's  on  me, 
tight  like  teeth.  I  can't  escape.  I  can't  breathe  for  it.  I 
was  like  a  stone  when  he  asked  me — marry  him  ! — loved 
me  !  Some  one  preached — my  duty  !  I  am  lost,  I  am  lost ! 
Why?  you  girl !— why 'i^— What  did  you  do?  Why  did 
you  take  my  hand  when  I  was  asleep  and  hurry  me  so  fast  ? 
What  have  I  done  to  you  ?  Why  did  you  push  nie  along  ? 
— I  couldn't  see  where.  I  heard  the  Church  babble.  For 
you — inhuman  !  inhuman  !  What  have  I  done  to  you  ? 
What  have  you  to  do  with   punishing  sin  ?    .It's  not  sin. 


dahlia's  feenzt.  347 

Let  me  be  sinful,  then.  I  am.  I  am  sinful.  Hef.r  me.  I 
love  him ;  I  love  my  lover,  and,"  she  screamed  out,  "  he 
loves  me  !" 

Rhoda  now  thought  her  mad. 

She  looked  once  at  the  rigid  figure  of  her  transformed 
sister,  and  sitting  down,  covered  her  eyes  and  wept 

To  Dahlia,  the  tears  were  at  first  an  acrid  joy  ;  but  being 
weak,  she  fell  to  the  bed,  and  leaned  against  it,  forgetting 
her  frenzy  foi'  a  time. 

"  You  deceived  me,"  she  murmured  ;  and  again,  "  Tou 
deceived  me."  Rhoda  did  not  answer.  In  trying  to  under- 
stand why  her  sister  should  imagine  it,  she  began  to  know 
that  she  had  in  truth  deceived  Dahlia.  The  temptation  to 
drive  a  frail  human  creature  to  do  the  thing  which  was 
right,  had  led  her  to  speak  falsely  for  a  good  purpose.  Was 
it  not  righteously  executed  ?  Away  from  the  tragic  figui-e 
in  the  room,  she  might  have  thought  so,  but  the  horror  in 
the  eyes  and  voice  of  this  awakened  Sacrifice,  struck  away 
the  support  of  theoretic  justification.  Great  pity  for  the 
poor  enmeshed  life,  helpless  there,  and  in  a  woman's  worst 
peril, — looking  either  to  madness,  or  to  death,  for  an  escape 
— drowned  her  reason  in  a  heavy  cloud  of  tears.  Long  on 
toward  the  stroke  of  the  hour.  Dahlia  heard  her  weep,  and 
she  mui-mured  on,  "Tou  deceived  me;"  but  it  was  no  more 
to  reproach  ;  rather,  it  was  an  exculpation  of  her  reproaches. 
"  You  did  deceive  me  Rhoda."  Rhoda  half  lifted  her  head  ; 
the  slight  tone  of  a  change  to  tenderness  swelled  the  gulfs 
of  pity,  and  she  wept  aloud.  Dahlia  untwisted  her  feet, 
and  staggered  up  to  her,  fell  upon  her  shoulder,  and  called 
her,  "  My  love  ! — good  sister  !"  For  a  great  mute  space 
they  clung  together.  Their  lips  met  and  they  kissed  con- 
vulsively. But  when  Dahlia  had  clo.se  view  of  Rhoda' s 
face,  she  di-ew  back,  saying  in  an  under-breath  :  "  Don't 
cry.     I  see  my  misery-  when  you  cry." 

Rhoda  promised  that  she  would  check  her  tears,  and  they 
sat  quietly,  side  by  side,  hand  in  hand.  Mrs.  Sumfit,  out- 
side, had  to  be  dismissed  twice  with  her  fresh  brews  of 
supplicating  tea  and  toast,  and  the  cakes  which,  when  eaten 
warm  with  good  country  butter  and  .a  sprinkle  of  salt, 
reanimate  (as  she  did  her  utmost  to  assure  the  sisters  through 
the   closed   door)    humanity's   distressed   spirit.     At   times 


348  EnODA  FLEMINO. 

tlioir  linnds  intorcliancrcd  a  fervent  pressure,  tlieir  eyes  were 
diuwii  tu  an  eijual  <;a/e. 

In  the  middle  of  the  nipi'ht  Dahlia  said  :  "  I  found  a  letter 
from  Edward  wlien  I  came  liei-e." 

"  Written — Uli,  base  man  that  he  is!"  Rhochi  could  not 
control  the  impulse  to  cry  it  out. 

"  Wi'ittcn  before"  said  Dahlia,  divining;  her  at  once.  "I 
read  it;  did  not  cry.  I  Jiave  no  ti'ar.s.  Will  you  see  it? 
It    is    very    short — enough  ;     it    said    enough,    and    Aviiifen 

before ."     She  crumpled  her  fingers  in  Khoda's  :  Rlioila, 

to  please  hrr,  .^layintr   "Yes,"  .she  \v('nt  fo  (he   pillow  of   tlie 
betl,  and  drew  the  letter  from  undiTiieatli. 

"I  know  every  word,"  she  said;  "I  should  die  if  1 
repeated  it.  '  Mij  in'fe  before  heaven,^  it  begins.  So,  I  wn^ 
his  wife.  I  must  have  broken  his  heart — bioken  my  hus- 
band's." Dahlia  cast  a  fearful  eye  about  her ;  her  eyelids 
fluttered  as  fi'om  a  savage  sudden  blow.  Hardening  her 
mouth  to  utter  defiant  spite  :  "  i\f y  lover's,"  she  cried.  ''  He 
is.  If  he  loves  me  and  I  love  him,  he  is  my  lover,  my  lover, 
my  lover  !  Nothing  shall  stop  me  from  saying  it — lover! 
and  there  is  none  to  claim  me  but  he.  Oh,  loathsome  ! 
What  a  serpent  it  is  I've  got  rf»und  me!  And  you  tell  mo 
God  put  it.  Do  you?  Answer  that;  for  I  want  to  know, 
and  I  don't  know  where  I  am.  I  am  lost!  I  am  lost!  I 
want  to  get  to  my  lover.  Tell  me,  Rhoda,  you  would  curse 
me  if  I  did.  And  listen  to  me.  Let  him  open  his  arms  to 
me,  I  go  ;  I  follow  him  as  far  as  my  feet  will  bear  me.  I 
would  go  if  it  lightened  from  heaven.  If  I  saw  up  there  the 
warning,  '  You  shall  not !'  I  would  go.  But,  look  on  me!" 
she  smote  contempt  upon  her  bosom.  "  He  would  not  call 
to  such  a  thing  as  me.  Me,  now  ?  IMy  skin  is  like  a  toad's 
to  him.  I've  become  like  something  in  the  dust.  I  could 
hiss  like  adders.  I  am  quite  impenitent.  I  pray  by  my 
bedside,  my  head  on  my  Bible,  but  I  only  say,  '  Yes,  yes  ; 
that's  done;  that's  deserved,  if  there's  no  mercy.'  Oh,  if 
there  is  no  mercy,  that's  deserved !  I  say  so  now.  But 
this  is  what  I  say,  Rhoda  (I  see  nothing  but  blackness  when 
I  j)ray),  and  I  say,  'Permit  no  worse!'  1  say,  'Permit  no 
worse,  or  take  the  consequences.'     He  calls  me  his  wife.     I 

am  his  wife.     And  if "     Dahlia  fell  to  speechless  i)ant- 

ing  ;   her  mouth  was  ojii'n;   she  inadi'  motion  with  her  hands; 
horror,  as  of  a  blasphemy  struggling  to  her  lips,  kept   her 


dahlia's  feenzy.  349 

dumb,  but  tlie  prompting  passion  was  indomitable 

"  Read  it,"  said  her  struggling  voice  ;  and  Rhoda  bent  over 
the  letter,  reading  and  losing  thought  of  each  sentence  as  it 
passed.  To  Dahlia,  the  vital  words  were  visible  like 
evanescent  blue  grave-lights.  She  saw  them  rolling  through 
her  sister's  mind  ;  and  just  upon  the  conclusion,  she  gave 
out,  as  in  a  chaunt :  "  And  I  who  have  sinned  against  my 
innocent  darling,  will  ask  her  to  pray  with  me  that  our  future 
inay  be  one,  so  that  I  may  make  good  to  her  lohat  she  has  suf- 
fered, and  to  the  God  whom  we  worship,  the  offence  I  have 
committed." 

Rhoda  looked  up  at  the  pale  penetrating  eyes. 

"  Read.  Have  you  read  to  the  last  r"'  said  Dahlia, 
"Speak  it.  Let  me  hear  you.  He  wi^ites  it.  .  .  .  Yes  ?  you 
will  not  ? — ^Husband,'  he  says,"  and  then  she  took  up  the 
sentences  of  the  letter  backwards  to  the  beginning,  pausing 
upon  each  one  with  a  short  moan,  and  smiting  her  bosom. 
"  I  found  it  here,  Rhoda.  I  found  his  letter  here  when  I 
came.  I  came  a  dead  thing,  and  it  made  me  spring  up  alive. 
Oh,  what  bliss  to  be  dead  !  I've  felt  nothing  .  .  .  nothing, 
for  months."  She  flung  herself  on  the  bed,  thrusting  her 
handkerchief  to  her  mouth  to  deaden  the  outcry.  "  I'm 
punished.  I'm  punished,  because  I  did  not  trust  to  mj 
darling.  No,  not  for  one  year  !  Is  it  that  since  we  parted  ? 
I  am  an  impatient  creature,  and  he  does  not  reproach  me.  I 
tormented  my  own,  my  love,  my  dear,  and  he  thought  I — 1 
Avas  tired  of  our  life  together.  No  ;  he  does  not  accuse  me," 
Dahlia  replied  to  her  sister's  unspoken  feeling,  with  the 
shrewd  divination  which  is  passion's  breathing  space.  "  He 
accuses  himself.  He  says  it — utters  it — speaks  it — '  I  sold 
my  beloved.'  There  is  no  guile  in  him.  Oh,  be  just  to  us, 
Rhoda  !  Dearest,"  she  came  to  Rhoda's  side,  "  you  did  deceive 
me,  did  you  not  ?     You  are  a  deceiver,  my  love  ?" 

Rhoda  trembled,  and  raising  her  eyelids,  answered, 
"Yes." 

"  You  saw  him  in  the  street  that  morning  ?" 

Dahlia  smiled  a  glittering  tenderness  too  evidently  deceit- 
ful in  part,  but  quite  subduing. 

"  You  saw  him,  my  Rhoda,  and  he  said  be  was  true  to  me, 
and  sorrowful ;  and  you  told  him,  dear  one,  that  I  had  no 
heart  for  him,  and  wished  to  go  to  hell — did  you  not,  good 
Kboda  ?     Forgive  me ;  I  mean  '  good ;'  my  true,  good  Rhoda. 


350  RHODA  FLEMIXO. 

Yes,  you  hate  sin ;  it  is  dreadful ;  but  you  should  never  speak 
falsely  to  sinners,  for  that  does  not  teach  them  to  repent. 
Mind  you  never  lie  ajijain.  Look  at  me.  I  am  chained,  and 
I  have  no  repentance  iu  me.  See  me.  I  am  nearer  it  .  .  . 
the  other: — sin,  I  mean.     If  that  man  comLS  .  .  .  will  he?" 

"  No — no  !"  Rhoda  cried. 

"  Tf  that  man  comes " 

"  lie  will  not  come  !" 

"  He  cast  me  olT  at  the  church  door,  and  said  he  had  been 
cheated.     Money!     Oh,  Edward !" 

Dahlia  drooped  her  head. 

"  He  will  keep  away.     You  are  safe,"  said  Rhoda. 

"  Because,  if  no  help  comes,  I  am  lost — I  am  lost  for 
ever ! 

"  Rut  help  will  come.  I  mean  peace  will  come.  We  will 
read;  we  will  woik  in  the  garden.  You  have  lifted  poor 
father  up,  my  dear." 

"  Ah  !  that  old  man,"  Dahlia  sighed. 

*'  He  is  our  father."  * 

"  Yes,  poor  old  man  !"  and  Dahlia  whispered:  "  I  have  no 
pity  for  him.  If  I  am  dragged  away,  I'm  afraid  I  shall 
curse  him.  He  seems  a  stony  old  man.  I  don't  understand 
fathers.  He  would  make  me  go  away.  He  talks  the  Scrip- 
tures when  he  is  excited.  I'm  afraid  he  would  shut  my 
Bible  for  me.  Those  old  men  know  nothing  of  the  hearts  of 
women.     Now,  darling,  go  to  your  room." 

Rhoda  begged  earnestly  for  permission  to  stay  with  her, 
but  Dahlia  said:  "My  nights  are  fevers.  I  can't  have  arms 
about  me." 

They  shook  hands  when  they  separated,  not  kissing. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 


ANTHONY    IN    A    COLLAPSE. 


TnRKE  days  passed  quietly  at  the  Farm,  and  each  morning 
Dalilia  came  down  to  breakfast,  and  sat  with  the  family  at 
their  meals  ;  pale,  with  the  mournful  rim  about  her  eyelids, 
but  a  patient  figure.  No  questions  wei-e  asked.  The  house 
was  guarded  from  visitors,  and  on  the  surface  the  homo  was 


ANTHONY  IN  A  COLLAPSE.  351 

peaceful.  On  the  Wednesday  Squire  Blaneove  was  buried, 
■wlien  Master  Gammon,  who  seldom  claimed  a  holiday  or 
specified  an  enjoyment  of  which  he  would  desire  to  partake, 
asked  leave  to  be  spared  for  a  couple  of  hours  that  he  might 
attend  the  ceremonious  interment  of  one  to  whom  a  sort  of 
vagrant  human  sentiment  of  clanship  had  made  him  look  up, 
as'to  the  chief  gentleman  of  the  district,  and  therefore  one 
having  claims  on  his  respect.  A  burial  had  great  interest 
for  the  old  man. 

"  I'll  be  home  for  dinner ;  it'll  gi'e  me  an  appetite,"  Master 
Gammon  said  solemnly,  and  he  marched  away  in  his  serious 
Sunday  hat  and  careful  coat,  blither  than  usual. 

After  his  departure,  Mrs.  Sumfit  sat  and  discoursed  on 
deaths  and  burials,  the  certain  end  of  all :  at  least,  she  cor- 
rected herself,  the  deaths  were.  The  burials  were  not  so 
certain.  Consequently,  we  might  take  the  burials,  as  they 
were  a  favoui",  to  be  a  blessing,  except  in  the  event  of  persons 
being  buried  alive.  She  tried  to  make  her  hearers  under- 
stand that  the  idea  of  this  calamity  had  always  seemed 
intolerable  to  her,  and  told  of  numerous  cases  which,  the 
coffin  having  been  opened,  showed  by  the  convulsed  aspect 
of  the  corpse,  or  by  spots  of  blood  upon  the  shroud,  that  the 
poor  creature  had  wakened  up  forlorn,  "  and  not  a  kick 
allowed  to  him,  my  dears." 

"  It  happens  to  women,  too,  does  it  not,  mother  r"'  said 
Dahlia. 

"  They're  most  subject  to  trances,  my  sweet.  From  always 
imitatin'  they  imitates  their  deaths  at  last;  and,  oh!"  Mrs. 
Sumfit  was  taken  with  nervous  chokings  of  alarm  at  the 
thought.  "  Alone — all  dark  !  and  hard  wood  upon  your 
chest,  your  elbows,  your  nose,  your  toes,  and  you  under 
heaps  o'  gravel  !  Not  a  breath  for  you,  though  you  snap 
and  catch  for  one — worse  than  a  fish  on  land." 

"  It's  over  very  soon,  mother,"  said  Dahlia. 

"  The  coldness  of  you  young  women  !  Yes ;  but  it's  the 
time — you  feeling,  trying  for  air  ;  it's  the  horrid — '  Oh,  dear 
me  !'     Ton  set  your  mind  on  it." 

"  I  do,"  said  Dahlia.  "  You  see  coffin-nails  instead  of 
stars.  You'd  give  the  world  to  turn  upon  one  side.  You 
can't  think.  You  can  only  hate  those  who  put  you  there. 
You  see  them  taking  tea,  saying  prayers,  sleeping  in  bed, 
putting  on  bonnets,   walking   to   church,   kneading  dough, 


352  RnODA  FLEMINO. 

eatinf?— all  at  onco,  like  the  firing  of  a  gun.     They're  in  one 
■vvorltl  ;  you're  in  anotlii'r." 

"  Wliy,  uiy  L,^oiKliie.ss,  one'd  say  she'd  gone  through  it 
herself,"  ejacnlated  Mrs.  Sumfit,  terrified. 

Dahlia  sent  her  eyes  at  Rhoda. 

■  I  wiist  go  and  see  that  i)0(>r  man  covered."  ^Irs.  Siinifit 
BUccunibed  to  a  fit  of  resolution  much  under  the  pretence 
that  it  had  long  been  forming. 

"Well,  an<l  mother,"  said  Dahlia,  checking  her,  "promise 
me.  Put  a  feather  on  my  mouth  ;  put  a  glass  to  my  face, 
before  you  let  them  carry  me  out.  Will  you?  Khoda 
promises.     I  have  asked  her." 

"Oh!  the  ideas  of  this  girl!"  Mrs.  Sumfit  burst  out. 
*'  And  looking  so,  as  she  says  it.  My  love,  you  didn't  mean 
to  die  ?" 

Dahlia  soothed  her,  and  sent  her  off. 

"  I  am  buried  alive  !"  she  said.  "  I  feel  it  all— the  stifling  ! 
the  hopeless  cramp !  Let  us  go  and  garden.  lUioda,  have 
you  got  laudanum  in  the  house  ?" 

Rhoda  .shook  her  head,  too  sick  at  heart  to  speak.  They 
■went  into  the  garden,  which  was  Dahlia's  healthfullest  place. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  her  dead  mother  talked  to  her  there. 
That  was  not  a  figure  of  speech,  when  she  said  she  felt  buried 
alive.  She  was  in  the  state  of  sensational  delusion.  There 
■were  times  when  she  watched  her  own  power  of  motion 
curiously:  curiously  stretched  out  her  haTids,  and  touched 
things,  and  moved  them.  The  sight  Avas  convincing,  but  the 
shudder  came  again.  In  a  frame  less  robust  the  brain  would 
have  given  way.  It  was  the  very  soundness  of  the  brain 
which,  when  her  blood  was  a  simjjie  tide  of  life  in  her  veins, 
and  no  vital  force,  had  condemned  her  to  see  the  wisdom  and 
the  righteousness  of  the  act  of  sacrifice  committed  by  her, 
and  hsxd  uiged  her  even  up  to  the  altar.  Then  the  sudden 
throwing  off  of  the  mask  by  that  man  to  whom  she  had 
bound  heiself,  and  the  reading  of  Ivlward's  letter  of  iienitenee 
and  love,  thwai-ted  reason,  but  without  blinding  or  unsettling 
it.  Passion  grew  dominant;  yet  against  such  deadly  matters 
on  all  sides  had  passion  to  strive,  that,  under  a  darkened  sky, 
visibly  chained,  bound  down,  and  hopeless,  she  felt  lietween- 
whiles  veritably  that  she  was  a  living  body  buried.  Her 
Benses  had  become  semi-lunatic. 

She  talked  reasonably ;  and  Rhoda,  hearing  her  question 


ANTH0N7  m  A'  COLLAPSE.  353 

and  answer  at  meal-times  like  a  sane  woman,  was  in  doubt 
whetlier  lier  sister  wilfully  simulated  a  partial  insauity  when 
they  were  alone  together.  ISTow,  in  the  garden,  Dahlia  said : 
*'  All  those  ilowers,  my  dear,  have  roots  in  mother  and  me. 
She  can't  feel  them,  for  her  soul's  in  heaven.  But  mine  is 
down  there.  The  pain  is  the  trying  to  get  your  soul  loose. 
It's  the  edge  of  a  knife  that  won't  cut  through.  Do  you 
know  that  ?" 

Rhoda  said,  as  acquiescingly  as  she  could,  "  Yes." 

"  Do  you  ?"  Dahlia  whispered.  "  It's  what  they  call  the 
*  agony.'  Only,  to  go  through  it  in  the  dark,  when  you  are 
all  alone !  boarded  round  !  you  will  never  know  that.  And 
there's  an  angel  brings  me  one  of  mother's  roses,  and  I  smell 
it.  I  see  fields  of  snow ;  and  it's  warm  there,  and  no  labour 
for  breath.  I  see  great  beds  of  flowers ;  I  pass  them  like  a 
breeze.  I'm  shot,  and  knock  on  the  ground,  and  they  bury 
me  for  dead  again.     Indeed,  deai^est,  it's  true." 

She  meant,  true  as  regarded  her  sensations.  Rhoda  could 
barely  give  a  smile  for  response ;  .and  Dahlia's  intelligence 
being  supernatui'ally  active,  she  read  her  sister's  doubt,  and 
cried  out: 

"  Then  let  me  talk  of  him  !" 

It  was  the  fiery  sequence  to  her  foregone  speech,  signify- 
ing that  if  her  passion  had  liberty  to  exj^ress  itself,  she  could 
clear  understandings.  But  even  a  moment's  free  wing  to 
passion  renewed  the  blinding  terror  within  her.  Rhoda 
steadied  her  along  the  walks,  praying  for  the  time  to  come 
when  her  friends,  the  rector  and  his  wife,  might  help  in  the 
task  of  comforting  this  poor  sister.  Detestation  of  the  idea 
of  love  made  her  sympathy  almost  deficient,  and  when  there 
was  no  active  work  to  do  in  aid,  she  was  nearly  valueless, 
knowing  that  she  also  stood  guilty  of  a  wrong. 

The  day  was  very  soft  and  still.  The  flowers  gave  light 
for  light.  They  heard  through  the  noise  of  the  mill-water 
the  funeral  bell  sound.  It  sank  in  Rhoda  like  the  preaching 
of  an  end  that  was  promise  of  a  beginning,  and  girdled  a 
distancing  land  of  trouble.  The  breeze  that  blew  seemed 
mercy.  To  live  here  in  forgetfulness  with  Dahlia  was  the 
limit  of  her  desires.  Perhaps,  if  Robert  worked  among 
them,  she  would  gratefully  give  him  her  hand.  That  is,  if 
he  said  not  a  word  of  love. 

Master  Gammon  and  Mrs.  Sumfit  were  punctual  in  theu* 

2  a 


o54 


EHODA  FLEMINO. 


return  near  the  dinner-hour  ;  and  the  business  of  relcasinf» 
the  dumplings  and  potatoes,  and  spreading  out  the  cold  meat 
and    lettuet's,   restrained   for  some   ]>eriod    the   luiriative    of 
proceeilings  at  the  luneral.     Chief  among  the  incidents  was, 
that  Mrs.  Sumfit  had  really  seen,  and  only  wanted,  by  cor- 
roboration of  blaster  Ciammon,  to  be  sure  she  had  jiositively 
seen,   Anthony   Hackbut  on  the  skii-ts  of   the  funeral  pro- 
cession.    Master  Gammon,    however,   was   no    supporter   of 
conjecture.     What  he  had  thought  he  had  thought;  but  that 
•was  neither  here  nor  there.     He  would  swear  to  nothing  that 
ho  had  not  touched; — eyes  deceived; — he  was  never  a  guesser. 
He  left  Mrs.   Sumfit  to  pledge  herself  in   perturbation  of 
spirit  to  an  oath  that  her  eyes  had  seen  Anthony  Hackbut ; 
and  more,   which    was  that   after  the   close   of  the   funeral 
service,   the    young   squire   had   caught   sight   of   Anthony 
crouching  in  a  corner  of  the  churchyard,  and  had  sent  a  man 
to  him,  and  they  had  disappeared  together.     Mrs.  Sumfit  was 
heartily   laughed   at  and  rallied   both  by  Robert   and   the 
farmer.      "  Tony  at    a  funeral !    and  train  e.xpenses  !"    the 
farmer  interjected.     "  D'ye  think,  mother,  Tony  'd  come  to 
Wrexby  churchyard  'fore   he    come    Queen    Anne's    Farm  ? 
And  where's  he  now,  mayhap  ?" 

Mrs.  Sumfit  appealed  in  despair  to  Master  Gammon,  with 
entreaties,  an<l  a  ready  dumpling. 

"  There,  Mas'  Gammon  ;  and  why  you  sh'd  play  at  '  do- 
believe  '  and  at  '  don't  believe,'  after  that  awesome  scene,  the 
solem'est  of  life's,  when  you  did  declare  to  me,  sayin',  it  was 
a  stride  for  boots  out  o'  London  this  morning.  Your  words, 
Mas"  Gammon  !  and  '  boots  ' — it's  true,  if  by  that  alone  ! 
For,  'boots,'  I  says  to  myself — he  thinks  by  'boots,'  there 
being  a  corder  in  his  family  on  the  mother's  side  ;  which  you 
yourself  told  to  me,  as  you  did,  Mas'  Gammon,  and  now  holds 
back,  you  did,  like  a  bad  horse." 

"  Hey  !  does  (iammon  jib  ?"  said  the  farmer,  with  tho 
ghost  of  old  laughter  twinkling  in  his  eyes. 

"He  told  me  this  tale,"  ^Mrs.  Sumfit  continued,  daring 
her  irresponsive  enemy  to  contradict  her,  with  a  tlireatening 
gaze.  "He  told  me  this  tale,  he  did  ;  and  my  belief's,  his 
game's,  he  gets  me  into  a  coi-ner — there  to  be  laughed  at ! 
!^las'  Gammon,  if  you're  not  a  sly  old  man,  you  said,  you  did, 
he  was  (h-ownded  ;  your  mf)ther's  brother's  wife's  brother; 
and  ae  had  a  biother,  and  what  he  was  to  you — that  brother — '* 


ANTHONY  IN  A  COLLAPSE.  355 

■ — Mrs.  Sumfit  smote  her  hands — "  Oh,  my  goodness,  mjpoor 
head !  but  you  shan't  slip  away,  Mas'  Gammon ;  no,  try  you 
ever  so  much.  Drownded  he  was,  and  eight  days  in  the  sea, 
which  you  told  me  over  a  warm  mug  of  ale  by  the  fire  years 
back.  And  I  do  believe  them  dumplings  makes  ye  obstinate; 
for  worse  you  get,  and  that  fond  of  'em,  I  sh'll  soon  not  have 
enough  in  our  biggest  pot.  Tes,  you  said  he  was  eight  days 
in  the  sea,  and  as  for  face,  you  said,  poor  thing  !  he  was  like 
a  rag  of  towel  dipped  in  starch,  was  your  own  words,  ai  d  all 
his  likeness  wiped  out ;  and  Joe,  the  other  brother,  a  cord'er — 
bootmaker,  you  call  'em — looked  down  him,  as  he  was 
stretched  out  on  the  shore  of  the  sea,  all  along,  and  didn't 
know  him  till  he  come  to  the  boots,  and  he  says,  'It's  Abner;' 
for  there  was  his  boots  to  know  him  by.  N"ow,  will  you 
deny,  Mas'  Gammon,  you  said,  Mr.  Hackbut's  boots,  and  a 
long  stride  it  was  for  'em  from  London  ?  And  I  won't  be 
laughed  at  through  arts  of  any  sly  old  man !" 

The  circumstantial  charge  made  no  impression  on  Master 
Gammon,  who  was  heard  to  mumble,  as  from  the  inmost 
recesses  of  tight-packed  dumpling ;  but  he  left  the  vindica- 
tion of  his  case  to  the  farmer's  laughter.  The  mention  of 
her  uncle  had  started  a  growing  agitation  in  Rhoda,  to 
whom  the  indication  of  his  eccentric  behaviour  was  a 
stronger  confirmation  of  his  visit  to  the  neighbourhood. 
And  wherefore  had  he  journeyed  down  ?  Had  he  come  to 
haunt  her  on  account  of  the  money  he  had  poured  into  her 
lap  ?  Rhoda  knew  in  a  moment  that  she  was  near  a  great 
trial  of  her  strength  and  truth.  She  had  more  than  once,  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  distantly,  conceived  that  the  money  had 
been  money  upon  which  the  mildest  word  for  'stolen'  should 
be  put  to  express  the  feeling  she  had  got  about  it,  after  she 
had  parted  with  the  bulk  of  it  to  the  man  Sedgett.  Not 
'  stolen,'  not  '  appropriated,'  but  money  that  had  perhaps 
been  entrusted,  and  of  which  Anthony  had  forgfotten  the 
rightful  ownership.  This  idea  of  hers  had  burned  with  no 
intolerable  fire ;  but,  under  a  weight  of  all  discountenancing 
appearances,  feeble  though  it  was,  it  had  distressed  her. 
The  dealing  with  money,  and  the  necessity  for  it,  had  given 
Rhoda  a  better  comprehension  of  its  nature  and  value.  She 
had  taught  herself  to  think  that  her  suspicion  sprang  from 
her  uncle's  wild  demeanour,  and  the  scene  of  the  gold  pieces 
scattered  on  the  floor,  as  if  a  heart  had  burst  at  her  feet. 

2  a2 


356  RHODA  FLEMINO. 

No  sooner  did  she  hoar  tliat  Anthony  liad  been,  by  supposi- 
tion, seen,  than  the  littk;  \\>j;ht  of  secret  dread  Hanied  a  ])anio 
through  her  veins.  81ie  hd't  the  table  before  !^blKte^ 
Caninion  had  finished,  and  went  out  of  tlie  house  to  luulc 
about  for  her  uncle.  He  was  nowhere  in  the  fields,  nor  in 
the  gravcvard.  She  walked  ovrr  the  neiuhbourhood  deso- 
lately, until  her  quickcni'd  apprehension  was  extinguished, 
and  she  retui-ned  home  relieved,  thinking  it  folly  to  liave 
imagined  her  uncle  was  other  than  a  man  of  hoarded  wealth, 
and  that  he  Avas  here.  But,  in  the  interval,  she  had  ex])e- 
rienced  emotions  which  warned  her  of  a  struggle  to  come. 
Who  would  be  friendly  to  her,  and  an  arm  of  might  ?  The 
thought  of  the  storm  she  had  sown  upon  all  sides  made  her 
tremble  foolishly.  When  she  placed  her  hand  in  llobert's, 
she  gave  his  fingers  a  confiding  pressure,  and  all  but 
dropped  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  so  sick  she  was  with 
weakness.  It  would  have  been  a  deceit  towaid  him,  and 
that  restrained  her;  perhaps,  yet  more,  she  was  restrained 
by  the  gloomy  pros])eet  of  having  to  rej)ly  to  any  words  of 
love,  without  an  idea  of  what  to  say,  and  with  a  loathing  of 
caresses.  She  saw  herself  condemned  to  stand  ahme,  and  at 
a  season  when  she  was  not  strengthened  by  pure  self-su])port. 
Rhoda  had  not  surrendered  the  stern  belief  that  she  had 
done  well  by  forcing  Dahlia's  hand  to  the  marriage,  though 
it  had  resulted  evilly.  In  reflecting  on  it,  she  had  still  a 
feeling  of  the  harsh  joy  peculiar  to  those  who  have  exercised 
command  with  a  conscious  righteousness  upon  wilful,  sinful, 
and  erring  spirits,  and  have  thwarted  the  wrong-doer.  She 
could  only  admit  that  there  was  sadness  in*  the  issue  ; 
hitherto,  at  least,  nothing  worse  than  sad  disapjJoiTitment. 
The  man  who  was  her  sister's  husband  could  no  longer  com- 
plain that  he  had  been  the  victim  of  an  imposition.  She 
had  bought  his  promise  that  he  would  leave  the  country, 
and  she  had  rescued  the  honour  of  the  family  by  paying 
him.  At  what  cost  ?  She  asked  herself  that  now,  and  then 
her  self-sup])ort  became  uneven.  Could  her  uncle  have 
parted  with  the  great  sum — have  shed  it  upon  her,  merely 
beneficently,  and  because  he  loved  her?  Was  it  possible 
that  he  had  the  habit  of  carrying  his  own  riches  through 
the  streets  of  Lonilon  ?  She  had  to  silence  all  questions 
imperiously,  recalling  exactly  her  ideas  of  him,  and  the 
value  of  money  in  the  moment  when  money  was  an  object  of 


AXTHONY  IN  A  COLLAPSE .  357 

hnng-er-— "wlien  she  had  seized  it  like  a  wolf,  and  its  value 
was  quite  unknown,  unguessed  at. 

Rhotia  threw  up  her  window  before  she  slept,  that  she 
■might  breathe  the  cool  night  air;  and,  as  she  leaned  out, 
she  heard  steps  moving  away,  and  knew  them  to  be  Robert's, 
in  whom  that  pressure  of  her  hand  had  cruellj  resuscitated 
his  longing  for  her.  She  drew  back,  wondering  at  the  idle- 
ness of  men — slaves  while  thej  want  a  woman's  love,  savages 
when  thaj  have  won  it.  She  tried  to  pity  him,  but  she  had 
not  an  emotion  to  spare,  save  perhaps  one  of  dull  exultation, 
that  she,  alone  of  women,  was  fi-ee  from  that  wretched  mesh 
called  love  ;  and  upon  it  she  slept. 

It  was  between  the  breakfast  and  dinner  hours,  at  the 
farm,  next  day,  when  the  young  squire,  accompanied  by 
Anthony  Hackbut,  met  farmer  Fleming  in  the  lane  border- 
ing one  of  the  outermost  fields  of  wheat.  Anthony  gave 
little  more  than  a  blunt  nod  to  his  relative,  and  slouched  on, 
leaving  the  farmer  in  amazement,  while  the  young  squire 
stopped  him  to  speak  with  him.  Anthony  naade  his  way  on 
to  the  house.  Shortly  after,  he  was  seen  passing  through 
the  gates  of  the  garden,  accompanied  by  ilhoda.  At  the 
dinner-hour,  Robert  was  taken  aside  by  the  farmer.  Neither 
Rhoda  nor  Anthony  presented  themselves.  They  did  not 
appear  till  nightfall.  When  Anthony  came  into  the  room, 
he  took  no  greetings  and  gave  none.  He  sat  down  on  the 
first  chair  by  the  door,  shaking  his  head,  with  vacant  eyes. 
Rhoda  took  off  her  bonnet,  and  sat  as  strangely  silent.  In 
vain  Mrs.  Sumfit  asked  her  ;  "  Shall  it  be  tea,  dear,  and  a 
little  cold  meat  ?"  The  two  dumb  figures  were  separately 
interi'ogated,  but  they  had  no  answer. 

"  Come  !  brother  Tony  ?"  the  farmer  tried  to  rally  him. 

Dahlia  was  knitting  some  article  of  feminine  gear.  Robert 
stood  by  the  musk-pots  at  the  window,  looking  at  Rhoda 
fixedly.  Of  this  gaze  she  became  conscious,  and  glanced 
from  him  to  the  clock. 

"  It's  late,"  she  said,  rising. 

"  But  you're  empty,  my  dear.  And  to  think  o'  going  to 
bed  without  a  dinner,  or  your  tea,  and  no  supper  !  You'll 
never  say  prayers,  if  you  do,"  said  Mrs.  Sumfit. 

The  remark  engendered  a  notion  in  the  farraer's  head,  that 
Anthony  promised  to  be  particularly  pray^rless. 

"  You've  been  and  spent  a  night  at  the  young  squire's,  I 


3.58  RnODA  FLEMIXO. 

hoar,  brother  Tony.  All  riirlit  and  well.  N'o  complaints  on 
my  part,  I  do  assure  ye.  If  you're  mixed  up  with  tliut 
family,  I  won't  bring  it  in  you're  anyways  mixed  np  with 
this  family  ;  not  so  as  to  clash,  do  you  see.  Only,  m;in,  now 
you  are  here,  a  word  'd  be  civil,  if  you  don't  want  a  dm-tor." 

"  I  was  right,"  murmui-ed  iMrs.  Sundit.  "^-1/  the  funeral, 
he  was  ;  and  Lord  be  thanked  !  I  thought  my  e^-es  was 
failin'.  Mas'  Gammon,  you  'd  ha'  lost  no  character  by  sidin' 
wi    lue. 

"Here's  Dahlia,  too,"  said  the  farmer.  "  Brother  Tony, 
don't  you  see  her.  She's  beginning  to  be  recogniz'ble,  if  her 
hair 'd  grow  a  bit  faster.     She's  .  .   .  well,  there  she  is." 

A  quavering,  tiny  voice,  that  came  from  Anthony,  said: 
"  How  d'ye  do — how  d'ye  do;"  sounding  like  the  tirst  effort 
of  a  fife.     But  Anthony  did  not  cast  eye  on  Piihlia. 

"  Will  you  eat,  man? — will  you  smoke  a  ])iper' — won't  you 
talk  a  word  'i — will  you  go  to  bed  ?" 

These  several  questions,  coming  between  pauses,  elicited 
nothing  from  the  staring  old  man. 

"  Is  there  a  matter  Avrong  at  the  Bank  ?"  the  farmer  called 
out,  and  Anthony  jumped  in  a  heap. 

"  Eh  ?"  persisted  the  farmer. 

Rhoda  interposed  :  "  Uncle  is  tii-ed ;  he  is  unwell.  To- 
morrow he  will  talk  to  you." 

"  No,  but  is  there  anything  Avrong  np  there,  though  ?" 
the  farmer  asked  with  eager  curiosity,  and  a  fresh  snule  at 
the  thought  that  those  Banks  and  city  folk  were  mortal, 
and  could  upset,  notwithstanding  their  crashing  wheels. 
"Brother  Tony,  you  sjieak  out;  has  anybody  been  and 
bioke  ?  Never  mind  a  blow,  so  long,  o'  course,  as  they 
haven't  swallowed  T/owr  money.  How  is  it?  Why,  I  never 
saw  such  a  sight  as  you.  You  come  down  from  London  ; 
you  jday  hide  and  seek  about  your  relation's  house;  and 
here,  when  you  do  condescend  to  step  in — eh  'r'  how  is  it  ? 
You  ain't,  I  hope,  ruiiied,  Tony,  aie  ye  ?" 

Rhoda  stood  over  her  uncle  to  conceal  him. 

"  He  shall  not  speak  till  he  has  had  some  rest.  And  yes, 
mother,  he  shall  have  some  Avai-m  tea  ujtstairs  in  bed.  Boil 
some  water.     Now,  uncle,  come  with  me." 

"  Anybody  broke  ?"  Anthony  rolled  the  woi-ds  over,  as 
Rhoda  raised  his  arm.  "  I'm  asked  such  a  lot,  my  dear,  I 
ain't  equal  to  it.     You  .said  here'd  be  a  quiet  place.     I  don't 


ANTHONY  IN  A  COLLAPSE.  359 

know  aboTit  money.  Try  my  pockets.  Yes,  mum,  if  you 
was  forty  policemen,  I'm  empty ;  you'd  find  it.  And  no 
objection  to  nod  to  prayers ;  but  never  was  taught  one  of 
my  own.     Where  am  I  going,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Upstairs  with  me,  uncle." 

Rhoda  bad  succeeded  in  getting  bim  on  bis  feet. 

The  farmer  tapped  at  his  forehead,  as  a  signification  to 
the  others  that  Anthony  had  gone  wrong  in  the  bead,  which 
reminded  bim  that  he  bad  prophesied  as  much.  He  stiffened 
out  his  legs,  and  gave  a  manful  spring,  crying,  "  Hulloa, 
brother  Tony !  why,  man,  eh  ?  Look  here.  What,  goin'  to 
bed?  What,  you,  Tony?  I  say — I  say — dear  me!"  And 
during  these  exclamations  intricate  visions  of  tripping  by 
means  of  gold  wires  danced  before  bim. 

Rhoda  hurried  Anthony  out. 

After  the  door  had  shut,  the  farmer  said :  "  That  comes 
of  it ;  sooner  or  later,  there  it  is !  You  give  your  heart  to 
money — you  insure  in  a  ship,  and  as  much  as  say,  here's  a 
ship,  and,  blow  and  lighten,  I  defy  you.  Whereas  we  day- 
by-day  people,  if  it  do  blow  and  if  it  do  lighten,  and  the 
waves  are  avilancbes,  we've  nothing  to  lose.  Poor  old  Tony 
— a  smash,  to  a  certainty.  There's  been  a  smash,  and  he's 
gone  under  the  harrow.  Any  o'  you  here  might  ha'  heard 
me  say,  things  can't  last  for  ever.     Ha'n't  you,  now  ?" 

The  persons  present  meekly  acquiesced  in  his  prophetic 
spirit  to  this  extent.  Mrs.  Sumfit  dolorously  said,  "  Often, 
William  dear,"  and  accepted  the  incontestable  truth  in  deep 
humiliation  of  mind. 

"  Save,"  the  farmer  continued,  "  save  and  store,  only  dont 
put  your  heart  in  the  box." 

"  It's  true,  William ;"  Mrs.  Sumfit  acted  clerk  to  the 
sermon. 

Dahlia  took  her  softly  by  the  neck,  and  kissed  her. 

"  Is  it  love  for  the  old  woman  F"  Mrs.  Sumfit  murmured 
fondlv :  and  Dahlia  kissed  her  asrain. 

The  farmer  had  bv  this  time  rounded  to  the  tbougrbt  of 
how  he  personally  might  be  affected  by  Anthony's  ill-luck, 
supposing,  perchance,  that  Anthony  was  suffering  from  some- 
thing more  than  a  sentimental  attachment  to  the  Bank  of 
his  predilection  :  and  such  a  reflection  instantly  diverted  his 
tendency  to  moralize. 

"  We   shall   hear  to-morrow,"  he  observed  in  conclusion  : 


360  EHODA  FLEMTNO. 

•vpliich,  as  it  caused  a  desire  for  the  morrow  to  sprinc;'  within 
his  bosom,  sent  his  eyes  at  Master  (luinmon,  who  was  half 
an  hour  behind  his  time  for  bed,  and  liad  dropped  asleep  in 
his  chair.  This  unusual  disjday  of  public  somnolence  on 
Master  Gammon's  part,  toj^etlier  with  the  veteran's  repiitjv 
tion  for  slowness,  made  the  farmer  fret  at  him  as  bein^'  in 
some  way  an  obstruction  to  the  lively  progress  of  the  hours. 

"  Hoy,  Gammon  !"  he  sang  out,  awakeningly  to  ordinary 
eai's  ;  but  blaster  Gammon  was  not  one  who  took  the  ordin.try 
plunge  into  the  gulf  of  sleep,  and  it  wasi-equii-ed  to  shake  him 
and  to  bellow  at  him — to  administer  at  once  earthquake  and 
thundei' — before  his  lizard  eyelids  Avould  lift  over  the  gri-at, 
old-world  eyes  ;  upon  which,  like  a  clayey  monster  refusing' 
to  be  informed  with  heavenly  fire,  he  rolled  to  the  right  of 
his  chair  and  to  the  left,  and  pitched  forward,  and  insisted 
upon  being  inanimate.  Brought  at  last  to  a  condition  of 
stale  consciousness,  he  looked  at  his  master  long,  and  uttered 
surprisingly :  "  Farmer,  there's  queer  things  going  on  in 
this  house,"  and  then  relapsed  to  a  combat  with  Mrs.  Sumfit, 
regarding  the  candle ;  she  saying  that  it  was  not  to  be 
entrusted  to  him,  and  he  sullenly  contending  that  it  was. 

"  Here,  we'll  all  go  to  bed,"  said  the  farmer.  "  What  with 
one  person  queer,  and  another  person  queer,  I  shall  be  in  for 
a  headache,  if  I  take  to  thinking.  Gammon's  a  man  sees  in 
's  sleep  what  he  misses  awake.  Did  you  ever  know,"  he 
addressed  anybody,  "  such  a  thing  as  Tony  Hackbut  coming 
into  a  relation's  house,  and  sitting  there,  and  not  a  word  for 
any  of  us  ?  It's,  I  call  it,  dumb-foundering.  And  that's 
me  :  why  didn't  I  go  up  and  shake  his  hand,  you  ask.  Well, 
why  not  ?  If  he  don't  know  he's  welcome,  without  ceremt)ny, 
he's  no  good.  Why,  I've  got  matters  t'  occupy  my  mind, 
too,  haven't  I  ?  Every  man  has,  and  some  more'n  others, 
let  alone  crosses.  There's  something  wrong  with  my  brother- 
in-law,  Tony,  that's  settled.     Odd  that  we  country  people, 

who  bide,  and  take  the  Lord's  gifts ."     The  farmer  did 

not  follow  out  this  reflccticm,  but  raising  his  arms,  shepherd- 
wise,  he  pulled  as  if  blowing  the  two  women  before  him  to 
their  beds,  and  then  gave  a  shy  look  at  Ilobert,  and  nodded 
good-night  to  liim.  Robert  nodded  in  reply.  He  knew  the 
cause  of  the  farmer's  uncommon  blitlieness.  Algernon  lilan- 
cove,  the  young  squire,  had  proposed  for  Rhoda's  hand. 


EHODA  PLEDGES  HEE  HAND.  861 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 

KHODA  PLEDGES  HER  HAND. 

A'N'THOirr  had  robbed  tbe  Bank.  Tbe  young'  sqnire  "was 
aware  of  the  fact,  and  bad  offered  to  interpose  for  him,  and 
to  make  good  the  money  to  the  Bank,  upon  one  condition. 
So  much,  Rhoda  had  gathered  from  her  uncle's  babbling 
interjections  throughout  the  day.  The  farmer  knew  only  of 
the  young  sqiiire's  proposal,  which  had  been  made  direct  to 
him ;  and  he  had  left  it  to  Robert  to  state  the  case  to  Rhoda, 
and  plead  for  himself.  She  believed  fully,  when  she  came 
downstairs  into  the  room  where  Robert  was  awaiting  her, 
that  she  had  but  to  speak  and  a  mine  would  be  sprung ;  and 
shrinking  from  it,  hoping  for  it,  she  entered,  and  tried  to 
fasten  her  eyes  upon  Robert  distinctly,  telling  him  the  tale. 
Robert  listened  with  a  calculating  seriousness  of  manner 
that  quieted  her  physical  dread  of  his  passion.  She  finished; 
and  he  said  : 

"  It  will,  perhaps,  save  your  uncle.  I'm  sure  it  will  please 
your  father." 

She  sat  down,  feeling  that  a  warmth  had  gone,  and  that 
she  was  very  bare. 

"  Must  I  consent,  then  ?" 

"  If  you  can,  I  suppose." 

Both  being  spirits  formed  for  action,  a  perplexity  found  them 
weak  as  babes.  He,  moreover,  was  stung  to  see  her  debating 
at  all  upon  such  a  question ;  and  he  was  in  despair  before 
complicated  events  which  gave  nothing  for  his  hands  and 
heart  to  do.  Stiff  endurance  seemed  to  him  to  be  his  lesson; 
and  he  made  a  show  of  having  learnt  it. 

"  Were  you  going  out,  Robert  ?" 

"  I  usually  make  the  rounds  of  the  house,  to  be  sure  all's 
safe." 

His  walking  about  the  garden  at  night  was  not,  then,  for 
the  purpose  of  looking  at  her  window.  Rhoda  coloured  in 
all  her  dark  crimson  with  shame  for  thinking  that  it  had 
beeu  so. 

"  I  must  decide  to-morrow  morning." 

"  They  say,  the  pillow's  the  best  counsellor." 

A  reply  that  presumed  she  would  sleep  appeared  to  her  as 
bitterly  unfriendly. 


3G2  EnODA  FLEMING. 

"  Did  father  wish  it  ?" 

"  Not.  by  what  ho  spoke." 

"  Yon  su]iposo  he  chx-s  wish  it  ?" 

"Where's  the  father  who  wouldn't?  Of  conrse,  lie 
•wishes  it.  He's  kind  enough,  but  you  may  be  certain  he 
wishes  it." 

"Oh!  Dahlia,  Dahlia!"  Rhoda  moaned,  under  a  rush  of 
new  sensations,  uniilial,  akin  to  those  which  her  sister  had 
distressed  her  by  speakinc^  shamelessly  out. 

"  Ah  !  poor  soul  !"  added  Robert. 

"  My  darling  must  be  brave  :  she  must  have  great  courage 
Dahlia  cannot  be  a  coward.     I  begin  to  see." 

Rhoda  threw  np  her  face,  and  sat  awhile  as  one  who  was 
reading  old  matters  by  a  fresh  light. 

"  I  can't  think,"  she  said,  with  a  start.  "  Have  I  been 
dreadfully  cruel  ?  "Was  I  unsisterly  ?  I  have  such  a 
horror  of  some  things — disgrace.  And  men  are  so  hard  on 
women  ;  and  father — I  felt  for  him.  And  I  hated  that  base 
man.  It's  his  cousin  and  his  name !  I  could  almost  fancy 
this  trial  is  brought  round  to  me  for  punishment." 

An  ironic  devil  prompted  Robert  to  say,  "  You  can't  let 
harm  come  to  your  uncle." 

The  thing  implied  was  the  farthest  in  his  idea  of  any 
■woman's  possible  duty. 

"  Are  you  of  that  opinion  ?"  Rhoda  questioned  with  her 
eyes,  but  uttered  nothing. 

Now,  he  had  spoken  almost  in  the  ironical  tone.  She 
should  have  noted  that.  And  how  could  a  true-hearted 
girl  suppose  him  capable  of  giving  such  counsel  to  her  whom, 
he  loved  ?  It  smote  him  with  horror  and  anger  ;  but  he  was 
much  too  manly  to  betray  these  actual  sentiments,  and  con- 
tinued to  dissemble.  You  see,  he  had  not  forgiven  her  for 
her  indiflerence  to  him. 

"  You  are  no  longer  your  own  mistress,"  he  said,  meaning 
exactly  the  reverse. 

This — that  she  was  bound  in  generosity  to  sacrifice  her- 
self— was  what  Rhoda  feared.  There  was  no  forceful 
passion  in  her  bosom  to  burst  tln-ough  the  crowd  of  w'eak 
reasonings  and  vanities,  to  'bid  her  be  a  woman,  not  a 
puppet ;  and  the  pas.sion  in  him,  for  which  she  craved,  that 
she  might  be  taken  up  by  it  and  whirled  into  forgetfulness, 
with  a  seal  of  betrothal  upon  her  lips,  was  absent:  so  that 


EHODA  PLEDGES  HER  HAND.  363 

Blie  thong'tt  herself  loved  no  more  by  JRobert.  She  was 
"weary  of  thinking  and  acting  on  her  own  responsibility,  and 
would  gladly  have  abandoned  her  will;  yet  her  judgement, 
if  she  was  still  to  exercise  it,  told  her  that  the  step  she  was 
bidden  to  take  was  one,  the  direct  consequence  and  the  fruit 
of  her  other  resolute  steps.  Pride  whispered,  "  You  could 
compel  your  sister  to  do  that  which  she  abhorred ;"  and 
Pity  pleaded  for  her  poor  old  uncle  Anthony.  She  looked 
back  in  imagination  at  that  scene  with  him  in  London, 
amazed  at  her  frenzy  of  power,  and  again,  from  that  con- 
templation, amazed  at  her  present  nervelessness. 

"  I  am  not  fit  to  be  my  own  mistress,"  she  said. 

"  Then,  the  sooner  you  decide  the  better,"  observed 
Robert,  and  the  room  became  hot  and  narrow  to  him. 

"  Very  little  time  is  given  me,"  she  murmured.  The 
sound  was  like  a  whimper ;  exasperating  to  one  who  had 
witnessed  her  remorseless  energy. 

"  I  dare  say  you  won't  find  the  hardship  so  great,'* 
said  he. 

"  Because,"  she  looked  up  quickly,  "  I  went  out  one  day 
to  meet  him  ?  Do  you  mean  that,  Robert  ?  I  went  to  hear 
news  of  my  sister.  I  had  received  no  letters  from  her.  And 
he  wrote  to  say  that  he  could  tell  me  about  her.  My  uncle 
took  me  once  to  the  Bank.  I  saw  him  there  first.  He  spoke 
of  Wrexby,  and  of  my  sister.  It  is  pleasant  to  inex- 
perienced girls  to  hear  themselves  praised.  Since  the  day 
•when  you  told  me  to  turn  back  I  have  always  respected  you." 

Her  eyelids  lowered  softly. 

Could  she  have  humbled  herself  more  ?  But  she  had,  at 
the  same  time,  touched  his  old  wound  :  and  his  rival  then 
was  the  wooer  now,  rich,  and  a  gentleman.  And  this  room, 
Robert  thought  as  he  looked  about  it,  was  the  room  in  which 
she  had  refused  him,  whea  he  first  asked  her  to  be  his. 

'•  I  think,"  he  said,  "  I've  never  begged  your  pardon  for 
the  last  occasion  of  our  being  alone  here  together.  I've  had 
my  arm  round  yoa.  Don't  be  frightened.  That's  my  mar- 
riage, and  there  was  my  wife.  And  there's  an  end  of  my 
likings  and  my  misconduct.  Forgive  me  for  calling  it  to 
mind." 

"  No,  no,  Robert,"  Rhoda  lifted  her  hands,  and,  startled 
by  the  impulse,  dropped  them,  saying:  "  What  forgiveness  ? 
Was  I  ever  angiy  with  you  ?" 


364  EnODA  FLEMINO. 

A  look  of  tomU'i-noss  acconipanied  the  words,  and  grew 
into  a  dusky  criia.sou  rose  uikIlt  his  eyes. 

"  Wheu  you  went  into  the  wood,  I  saw  you  going :  I 
Jiupw  it  was  for  some  good  object,"  he  said,  and  flushed 
equally. 

Jjut,  by  the  recurrence  to  that  scene,  he  had  checked  her 
sensitive  developing  emotion.  She  hung  a  moment  in 
l.-uiguor,  and  that  oriental  warmth  of  colour  ebbed  away 
from  her  cheeks. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  she. 

Then  he  perceived  in  dimmest  fashion  that  possibly  a 
chance  hud  come  to  ripeness,  withered,  and  fallen,  within 
the  late  scoffing  seconds  of  time.  Enj'aged  at  his  blindness, 
and  careful,  lest  he  had  wrongly  guessed,  not  to  ex|)ose  his 
regret  (the  man  Avas  a  lover),  he  remarked,  both  truthfully 
and  hypocritically  :  "  I've  always  thought  you  were  born  to 
be  a  lady."     (You  had  that  ambition,  young  madam.) 

She  answered  :  "That's  what  I  don't  understand."  (Your 
Baying  it,  0  my  friend  !) 

"  You  will  soon  take  to  your  new  duties."  (You  have 
small  objection  to  them  even  now.) 

"  Yes,  or  my  life  won't  be  worth  much."  (Know,  that 
you  are  driving  me  to  it.) 

"  And  I  wish  you  happiness,  Rhoda."  (You  are  madly 
imperilling  the  pros])ect  tlieieof.) 

To  each  of  them  the  second  meaning  stood  shadowy 
behind  the  utterances.     And  further  : 

"  Thank  you,  Robert."  (I  shall  have  to  thank  you  for 
the  issue.) 

"  Now  it's  time  to  part."  (Do  you  not  see  that  there's  a 
danger  for  me  in  remaining  ?) 

"  Good  night."      (IJehohl,  I  am  submissive.) 

"Good  night,  Rhoda."  (You  were  the  first  to  give  the 
signal  of  parting.) 

"  Good  night."     (I  am  simply  submissive.) 

"  Why  not  my  name  ?     Are  you  hurt  with  me  ?" 

Rhoda  choked.  The  indirectness  of  speech  had  been  a 
shelter  to  her,  permitting  her  to  hint  at  more  thau  she 
dared  clothe  in  words. 

Again  the  delicious  dusky  rose  glowed  beneath  his  eyes. 

But  he  had  put  his  hand  out  to  her,  and  she  had  not 
takuu  it. 


EHODA  PLEDGES  HER  HAND.  3G5 

"  What  have  I  done  to  offend  you  ?  I  really  don't  know, 
Rhoda." 

"  iS'othing."     The  flower  had  closed. 

He  determined  to  believe  that  she  was  gladdened  at  heart 
by  the  prospect  of  a  fine  marriage,  and  now  began  to  discourse 
of  Anthony's  delinquency,  saying  : 

"  It  was  not  money  taken  for  money's  sake  :  any  one  caa 
see  that.  It  was  half  clear  to  me,  when  you  told  me  about 
it,  that  the  money  was  not  his  to  give,  but  I've  got  the  habit 
of  trusting  you  to  be  always  correct." 

"And  I  never  am,"  said  Rhoda,  vexed  at  him  and  at  herself. 

"  Women  can't  judge  so  well  about  money  matters.  Has 
your  uncle  no  account  of  his  own  at  the  Bank  ?  He  was 
thoug-ht  to  be  a  bit  of  a  miser." 

"  What  he  is,  or  what  he  was,  I  can't  guess.  He  has  not 
been,  near  the  Bank  since  that  day;  nor  to  his  home.  He 
has  wandered  down  on  his  way  here,  sleeping  in  cottages. 
His  heart  seems  broken.  I  have  still  a  great  deal  of  the 
money.  I  kept  it,  thinking  it  might  be  a  protection  for 
Dahlia.  Oh  !  my  thoughts  and  what  I  have  done  !  Of 
course,  I  imagined  him  to  be  rich.  A  thousand  pounds 
seemed  a  great  deal  to  me,  and  very  little  for  one  who  was 
rich.  If  I  had  reflected  at  all,  I  must  have  seen  that  Uncle 
Anthony  would  never  have  carried  so  much  through  the 
streets.  I  was  like  a  fiend  for  money.  I  must  have  been 
acting  wrongly.     Such  a  craving  as  that  is  a  sign  of  evil." 

"  What  evil  there  is,  you're  going  to  mend,  Rhoda." 

«'  I  sell  myself,  then." 

"  Hardly  so  bad  as  that.  The  money  will  come  from  you 
instead  of  from  your  uncle." 

Rhoda  bent  forward  in  her  chair,  with  her  elbows  on  her 
knees,  like  a  man  brooding.  Perhajis,  it  was  right  that  the 
money  should  come  from  her.  And  how  could  she  have 
hoped  to  get  the  money  by  any  other  means  ?  Here  at  least 
was  a  positive  escape  from  perplexity.  It  came  at  the  right 
moment ; — was  it  a  help  divine  ?  What  cowardice  had  been 
prompting  her  to  evade  it  ?  After  all,  could  it  be  a  di^eadful 
step  that  she  was  required  to  take  ? 

Her  eyes  met  Robert's,  and  he  said  startlingly  :  "  Just  like 
a  woman  1" 

"  Why  ?"  but  she  had  caught  the  significance,  and  blushed 
•with  spite. 


306  EHODA  FLEMING. 

**  He  was  the  first  to  praise  you." 

•'  Yoti  arc  bi-ntal  to  mo,  Robert." 

**  My  name  at  last !  You  accused  me  of  tliat  sort  of  thing 
before,  in  this  room." 

Rhothi  stood  up.     "  I  will  wish  you  good  night." 

"  And  now  you  take  my  hand." 

"Good  ni^lit,"  they  uttered  simultaneously;  but  Robert 
did  not  give  up  the  hand  he  had  got  in  his  own.  His  eyes 
grew  sharp,  and  he  squeezed  the  fingers. 

"I'm  bound,"'  she  cried. 

*'  Once  !"  Robert  di'ew  her  nearer  to  him. 

*'  Let  me  go." 

•'  Once  !"  he  reiterated.  "  Rhoda,  as  I've  never  kissed  you 
^-once  ! 

"No:  don't  anger  me." 

"  No  one  has  ever  kissed  you  ?" 

"Never." 

"  Then,  I ."    His  force  was  compelling  the  straightened 

figure. 

Had  he  said,  "  Be  mine  !"  she  might  have  softened  to  his 
embrace ;  but  there  was  no  fire  of  divining  love  in  her  bosom 
to  perceive  her  lover's  meaning.  She  read  all  his  words  as  a 
placard  on  a  board,  and  revolted  from  the  outrage  of  sub- 
mitting her  lips  to  one  who  was  not  to  be  her  husband.  His 
jealousy  demanded  that  gratification  foremost.  The  '  Be 
mine  !'  was  ready  enough  to  follow. 

"  Let  me  go,  Robert." 

She  was  released.  The  cause  for  it  was  in  the  opening  of 
the  door.     Anthony  stood  there. 

A  more  astounding  resemblance  to  the  phantasm  of  a 
dream  was  never  presented.  He  was  clad  in  a  manner  to 
show  forth  the  condition  of  his  wits,  in  partial  night  and  day 
attire  :  one  of  the  farmer's  nightcaps  was  on  his  head,  sur- 
mounted by  his  hat.  A  confused  recollection  of  the  necessity 
for  trousers,  had  made  him  draw  on  those  garments  sufficiently 
to  ])ermit  of  the  movement  of  his  short  legs,  at  which  ])()iiit 
their  subserviency  to  the  uses  ended.  Wi-iiikled  with  incon- 
gruous clothing  from  head  to  foot,  and  dazed  by  the  light, 
ho  peered  on  them,  like  a  mouse  magnified  and  petrified. 
"  Dearest  uncle!"  Rhoda  went  to  hira. 

Anthony  nodded,  pointing  to  the  door  leading  out  of  the 
house. 


EHODA  PLEDGES  HER  HAND,  367 

*'I  jast  want  togo  off — gooff.     Never  you  mind  me.     I'm 

only  going  off." 

"  You  must  go  to  your  bed,  uncle." 

"  Oh,  Lord  !  no.     I'm  going  off,  my  dear.     I've  had  sleep 

enoup-h  for  forty.     I ,"  he   turned  his  mouth  to  Rhoda's 

ear,  "  I  don't  want  t'  see  th'  old  farmer."  And,  as  if  he  had 
given  a  conclusive  reason  for  his  departure,  he  bored  towards 
the  door,  repeating  it,  and  bawling  additionally,  "in  the 
morning." 

"  You  have  seen  him,  uncle.  You  have  seen  him.  It's 
over,"  said  Rhoda. 

Anthony  whispered  :  "  I  don't  want  t'  see  th'  old  farmer." 

"  But,  you  have  seen  him,  uncle." 

"  In  the  morning,  my  dear.  Not  in  the  morning.  He'll 
be  looking  and  asking,  '  Where  away,  brother  Tony  ?' 
'  Where's  your  banker's  book,  brother  Tony  ?'  '  How's 
money-market,  brother  Tony  ?'     I  can't  see  th'  old  farmer." 

It  was  impossible  to  avoid  smiling  :  his  imitation  of  the 
farmer's  country  style  was  exact. 

She  took  his  hands,  and  used  every  persuasion  she  could 
think  of  to  induce  him  to  return  to  his  bed ;  nor  was  he 
insensible  to  argument,  or  superior  to  explanation. 

"  Th'  old  farmer  thinks  I've  got  millions,  my  dear.  You 
can't  satisfy  him.  He  ....  I  don't  want  t'  see  him  in  the 
morning.  He  thinks  I've  got  millions.  His  mouth  '11  go 
down.  I  don't  want  .  .  .  Yoa  don't  want  him  to  look  .  .  . 
And  I  can't  count  now ;  I  can't  count  a  bit.  And  every  post 
I  see,  's  a  policeman.  I  ain't  hiding.  Let  'em  take  the  old 
man.  And  he  was  a  faithful  servant,  till  one  day  he  got  up 
on  a  regular  whirly-go-round,  and  ever  since  ....  such  a 
little  bov  !     I'm  frio-htened  o'  you,  Rhoda." 

"  1  will  do  everything  for  you,"  said  Rhoda,  crying 
wretchedly. 

"  Because,  the  young  squire  says,"  Anthony  made  his 
voice  mystei'ious. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Rhoda  stopped  him  ;  "  and  I  consent ;"  she 
gave  a  hurried  half-glance  behind  her.  "  Come,  uncle.  Oh  ! 
pity !  don't  let  me  think  your  reason's  gone.  I  can  get  you 
the  money,  but  if  you  go  foolish,  I  cannot  help  you." 

Her  energy  had  returned  to  her  with  the  sense  of  sacrifice. 
Anthony  eyed  her  tears.  "We've  sat  on  a  bank  and  cried 
together,  haven't  we  ?"  he  said.      "  And  counted  ants,  wo 


3o3  RnODA  FLEMING. 

have.  Rliall  we  sit  in  the  sun  tocfether  to-morrow  ?  Saj, 
wo  sliall.  Shall  we  r*  A  pood  long  day  in  tlie  sun  and 
liolmdv  looking  at  mo's  my  pleasure." 

Klioda  gave  him  the  assurance,  and  he  turned  and  went 
ti]ist:iirs  witli  hiT,  docile  at  the  prospect  of  hours  to  be 
passed  in  the  sunlight. 

Yet,  when  morning  came,  he  had  disappeared.  Robert 
also  was  absent  From  tlie  breakFast-table.  The  farmer  maile 
no  remarks,  save  that  he  reckoned  Master  Gammon  was 
rifirht — in  allusion  to  the  veteran's  somnolent  observation 
overnight;  and  strange  things  were  acted  before  his  eyes. 

There  came  by  the  morning  delivery  of  letters  one 
addre.ssed  to  '  Miss  Fleming.'  He  beheld  his  daughters 
rise,  put  their  hands  out,  and  claim  it,  in  a  breath ;  and 
they  gazed  upon  one  another  like  the  two  women  demanding 
the  babe  from  the  justice  of  tlie  Wise  King.  The  letter  was 
placed  in  Rhoda's  hand  ;  Dahlia  laid  hers  on  it.  Their 
mouths  were  shut ;  anyone  not  looking  at  them  would  have 
been  unaware  that  a  supreme  contlict  was  going  on  in  the 
room.  It  was  a  strenuous  wrestle  of  their  eye- balls,  like  the 
'  give  way '  of  athletes  pausing.  But  the  delirious  beat 
down  the  constitutional  strength.  A  hard  bright  smile 
ridged  the  hollow  of  Dahlia's  cheeks.  Rhoda's  dark  eyes 
sliut;  she  let  go  her  hold,  and  Dahlia  thrust  the  letter  in 
against  her  bosom,  snatched  it  out  again,  and  dijiped  her  face 
to  roses  in  a  jug,  and  kissing  ^Irs.  Sumtit,  ran  from  the  room 
for  a  single  minute  ;  af rer  which  she  came  back  smiling  with 
gi-avely  joyful  eyes  and  showing  a  sedate  readiness  to  eat 
and  conclude  the  morning  meal. 

What  did  this  mean  ?  The  farmer  could  have  made  allow- 
ance for  Rhoda's  behaving  so,  seeing  that  she  notoriously 
possessed  intellect;  and  he  had  the  habit  of  chai-giiig  all 
freaks  and  vagai'ies  of  manner  upon  intellect.  But  Dahlia 
•was  a  soft  creature,  without  this  apology  for  extravagance, 
and  what  right  had  she  to  letters  addressed  to  '  Miss  Flem- 
ing '  ?  The  farmer  prepared  to  ask  a  question,  and  was 
further  instigated  to  it  by  seeing  Mrs.  Sumfit's  eyes  roll 
sympathetic  under  a  bui'den  of  overpowering  curiosity  and 
bowihlerment.  On  the  point  of  speaking,  he  remembered 
that  he  had  pledged  his  word  to  ask  no  questions ;  he  feared 
to — that  was  the  secret ;  he  had  put  his  trust  in  Rhoda's 
assurance,  and  shraidc  from  a  spoken  suspicion,     So,  check- 


RHODA  PLEDGES  HER  HAND.  3()9 

ing- himself,  he  broke  out  upon  Mrs.  Sumfit:  "N'ow,  then, 
mother!"  which  caused  her  to  fluster  guiltily,  she  having 
likewise  given  her  oath  to  be  totally  unquestioning,  even  as 
was  Master  Gammon,  whom  she  watched  with  a  deep  envy. 
Mrs.  Sumfit  excused  the  anxious  expression  of  her  face  by 
saying  that  slie  was  thinking  of  her  dairy,  whither,  followed 
by  the  veteran,  she  retired. 

Bhoda  stood  eyeing  Dahlia,  nerved  to  battle  against  the 
contents  of  that  letter,  though  in  the  first  conflict  she  had 
been  beaten.  "  Oh,  this  curse  of  love!"  she  thought  in  her 
heart ;  and  as  Dahlia  left  the  room,  flushed,  stupefied,  and 
conscienceless,  Rhoda  the  more  readily  told  her  father  the 
determination  which  was  the  result  of  her  interview  with 
Robert. 

No  sooner  had  she  done  so,  than  a  strange  fluttering  desire 
to  look  on  Robert  awoke  within  her  bosom.  She  left  the 
house,  believing  that  she  went  abroad  to  seek  her  uncle,  and 
walked  up  a  small  grass-knoll,  a  little  beyond  the  farm-yai-d, 
from  which  she  could  see  green  corn-ti-acts  and  the  pastures 
by  the  river,  the  river  flowing  oily  under  summer  light,  and 
the  slow-footed  cows,  with  their  heads  bent  to  the  herbage ; 
far-away  sheep,  and  white  hawthorn  bushes,  and  deep  hedge- 
ways  bursting  out  of  the  trimness  of  the  earlier  season ;  and 
a  nightingale  sang  among  the  hazels  near  by. 

This  scene  of  unthrobbing  peacefulness  was  beheld  by 
Rhoda  with  ner  first  conscious  delight  in  it.  She  gazed 
round  on  the  farm,  under  a  quick  new  impulse  of  affection 
for  her  old  home.  And  whose  hand  was  it  that  could  alone 
sustain  the  working  of  the  farm,  and  had  done  so,  without 
reward  ?  Her  eyes  travelled  up  to  Wrexby  Hall,  perfectly 
barren  of  any  feeling  that  she  was  to  enter  the  place,  aware 
only  that  it  was  full  of  pain  for  her.  She  accused  herself, 
but  could  not  accept  the  charge  of  her  having  ever  hoped  for 
transforming  events  that  should  twist  and  throw  the  dear 
old  farm-life  long  back  into  the  fields  of  memory.  Nor  could 
she  understand  the  reason  of  her  continued  coolness  to 
Robert.  Enough  of  accui-ate  reflection  was  given  her  to 
perceive  that  discontent  with  her  station  was  the  original 
cause  of  her  discontent  now.  What  she  had  sown  she  was 
reaping : — and  wretchedly  colourless  are  these  harvests  of 
our  dream  !  The  sun  has  not  shone  on  them.  They  may 
have  a  tragic  blood-hue,  as   with  Dahlia's  ;  but  they  will 

2b 


370  RnODA  FLEMING. 

never  liave  any  warm,  and  fresh,  and  nourishing'  sweetness — 
the  juice  whie-h  is  in  a  siiiL'le  bljide  of  .i,n'a.s.s. 

A  longing  came  upon  Klioda  to  go  and  handle  butter. 
She  wished  to  smell  it  as  Mrs.  Sumtit  drubbed  and  patted 
and  flattened  and  loundcd  it  in  the  dairy;  and  she  ran  down 
the  slope,  meeting  licr  luthcr  at  the  gate.  He  was  dressed 
in  his  brushed  suit,  going  she  knew  whither,  and  when  he 
asked  if  she  had  seen  her  uncle,  .she  gave  for  answer  a  ]»l:iin 
neyative,  and  longed  more  keenly  to  be  at  woik  with  her 
hands,  and  to  smell  the  homely  creamy  air  under  the  dairy- 
ehed. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE     ENEMY     APPEARS. 

She  watched  her  father  as  he  went  across  the  field  and 
into  the  lane.  Her  breathing  was  suppressed  till  he  ajipeai-ed 
in  view  at  different  points,  more  and  more  distant,  and  then 
she  sighed  heavily,  sto])ped  her  breathing,  and  hoped  her 
Tinshaped  hope  again.  The  last  time  he  was  in  sight,  she 
found  herself  calling  to  him  with  a  voice  like  that  of  a  bur- 
dened sleeper :  her  thought  being,  "  How  can  j'on  act  so 
cruelly  to  Robert!"  He  passed  up  AVrexby  Heath,  and  over 
the  black  burnt  patch  Avhere  the  fire  had  caught  the  furzes 
on  a  dry  May-night,  and  sank  on  the  side  of  the  Hall. 

When  we  have  looked  upon  a  picture  of  still  green  life  with 
a  troubled  soul,  and  the  blow  falls  on  us,  we  accuse  nature 
of  our  own  ti-eachery  to  her.  Rhoda  hurried  from  the  dairy- 
door  to  shut  herself  up  in  her  room  and  darken  the  light  sur- 
rounding her.  She  had  turned  the  lock,  and  was  about 
systematically  to  pull  down  the  blind,  when  the  marvel  of 
beholding  Dahlia  stepping  out  of  the  garden  made  her  for  a 
moment  less  the  creature  of  her  sickened  senses.  Dahlia 
was  dressed  for  a  walk,  and  she  went  very  fast.  The  same 
pjiralysis  of  motion  afllicted  Rhoda  as  Avhen  she  was  gazing 
alter  her  father;  but  her  hand  stretched  out  instinctively 
for  her  bonnet  when  Dahlia  had  crossed  the  gi-een  and  the 
niill-hridge,  and  was  no  more  visible.  Rhoda  dreiv  her 
bonnet  on,  and  caught  her  black  silk  mantle  in  her  hand, 


THE  ENEMY  APPEAES.  371 

and  without  stren^li  to  throw  it  across  her  shoulders, 
dropped  before  her  bed,  and  uttered  a  strange  prayer. 
"  Let  her  die  rather  than  go  back  to  disgrace,  mj  God  !  my 
God !" 

She  tried  to  rise,  and  failed  in  the  effort,  and  supersti- 
tiously  renewed  her  prayer.  "  Send  death  to  her  rather  !" — ■ 
and  tlhoda's  vision  under  her  shut  eyes  conjured  up  clouds 
and  lightnings,  and  spheres  in  conflagration. 

There  is  nothing  so  indicative  of  fevered  or  of  bad  blood 
as  the  tendency  to  counsel  the  Almighty  how  he  shall  deal 
with  his  creatures.  The  strain  of  a  long  uncertainty,  and 
the  hte  feverish  weeks  had  distempered  the  fine  blood  of  the 
girl,  and  her  acts  and  words  were  becoming  remoter  ex- 
ponents of  her  character. 

She  bent  her  head  in  a  blind  doze  that  gave  her  strength 
to  rise.  As  swiftly  as  she  could  she  went  in  the  track  of  her 
sister. 

That  morning,  Robert  had  likewise  received  a  letter.  It 
was  from  Major  Waring,  and  contained  a  bank-note,  and  a 
siimmons  to  London,  as  also  an  enclosure  from  Mrs.  Boulby 
of  Warbeach;  the  nature  of  which  was  an  advertisement 
cut  out  of  the  county  paper,  notifying  to  one  Robert  Eccles 
that  his  aunt  Anne  had  died,  and  that  there  was  a  legacy 
for  him,  to  be  paid  over  upon  application.  Robert  crossed 
the  fields,  laughing  madly  at  the  ironical  fate  which  favoured 
him  a  little  and  a  little,  and  never  enough,  save  just  to  keep 
him  swimming. 

The  letter  from  Major  Waring  said  : — 

"  I  must  see  you  immediately.  Be  quick  and  come.  I 
begin  to  be  of  your  opinion — there  are  some  things  which  we 
must  take  into  our  own  hands  and  deal  summarily  with." 

"  Ay  ! — ay  !"  Robert  gave  tongue  in  the  clear  morning  air, 
scenting  excitement  and  eager  for  it  as  a  hound. 
More  was  written,  which  he  read  subsequently. 

"I  wrong,"  Percy's  letter  continued,  "the  best  of  women. 
She  was  driven  to  my  door.  There  is,  it  seems,  some  hope 
that  Dahlia  will  find  herself  free.  At  any  rate,  keep  guard 
over  her,  and  don't  leave  her.  Mrs.  Lovell  has  herself  been 
moving  to  make  discoveries  down  at  Warbeach.     Mr.  Blan. 

2b2 


372  EHODA  FLEMING. 

cove  has  nearly  qnitted  tliis  sphere.  She  nnrsed  him — 1 
was  jealous  I — the  word's  out.  Truth,  courage,  and  suilering 
touch  Margaret's  heart. 

♦'  Yours, 

"  Percy." 

Jumping  over  a  bank,  Robert  came  npon  Anthony,  who 
was  unsteadily  gazing  at  a  donkey  that  cropped  the  grass 
by  a  gate. 

"  Here  you  are,"  said  Robert,  and  took  his  arm. 

Anthony  struggled,  though  he  knew  the  grasp  was  friendly; 
but  he  was  led  along:  nor  did  Robert  stop  until  they  reached 
Greatham,  five  miles  beyond  AVrcxby,  where  he  entei-ed  the 
principal  inn  and  called  for  wine. 

"  You  want  spirit :  you  want  life,"  said  Robert. 

Anthony  knew  that  he  Avantcd  no  wine,  whatever  his  needs 
might  be.  Yet  the  tender  ecstacy  of  being  paid  for  was 
iri-esistible,  and  he  drnnk,  saying,  "  Just  one  glass,  then." 

Robert  pletlged  him.  They  were  in  a  private  room,  of 
which,  having  ordered  up  three  bottles  of  sherry,  Robert 
locked  the  door.  The  devil  was  in  him.  He  compelled 
Anthony  to  drink  an  equal  portion  with  himself,  alternately 
frightening  and  cajoling  the  old  man. 

"  Drink,  I  tell  you.  You've  robbed  me,  and  you  shall 
drink  •" 

"  I  haven't,  I  haven't,"  Anthony  Avhined. 

"  Drink,  and  be  silent.  You've  robbed  me,  and  you  shall 
drink !  and  by  heaven  !  if  you  resist,  I'll  hand  you  over  to 
bluer  imps  than  you've  ever  dreamed  of,  old  gentleman! 
You've  robbed  me,  Mr.  Hackbut.     Drink  !     I  tell  you." 

Anthony  wept  into  his  glass. 

"  That's  a  trick  I  could  never  do,"  said  Robert,  eyeing  the 
drip  of  the  trembling  .old  tear  pitilessly.  "Your  health, 
Mr.  Hackbut.  You've  robbed  me  of  my  sweetheart.  Never 
mind.  Life's  but  the  pop  of  a  gun.  Some  of  us  Hash  in  the 
pan,  and  they're  the  only  ones  that  do  no  mischief.  You're 
not  one  of  them,  sir ;  so  you  must  drink,  and  let  me  see  yoa 
cheerful." 

y>y  degrees,  the  wine  stirred  Anthony's  blood,  and  he 
chirped  feebly,  as  one  who  half  remembered  that  he  ought 
to  be  miseral)le.  Robert  listened  to  his  maundering  account 
of  his  adventure  with  the  Bank  money,  stei-idy  replenishing 


THE  ENEMY  APPEAES.  373 

his  glass.  His  attention  was  taken  by  the  sight  of  Dahlia 
stepping  forth  from  a  chemist's  shop  in  the  street  nearly 
opposite  to  the  inn.  "  This  is  ?»?/ medicine,"  said  Robert; 
"  and  yours  too,"  he  addressed  Anthony. 

The  sun  had  passed  its  meridian  when  they  went  into  the 
streets  again.  Robert's  head  was  high  as  a  cock's,  and 
Anthony  leaned  on  his  arm;  performing  short  half -circles 
headlong  to  the  front,  until  the  mighty  arm  checked  and 
■uplifted  him.  They  were  soon  in  the  fields  leading  to 
Wrexby.  Robert  saw  two  female  figures  far  ahead.  A  man 
was  hastening  to  join  them.  The  women  started  and  turned 
suddenly :  one  threw  up  her  hands,  and  darkened  her  face. 
It  was  in  the  pathway  of  a  broad  meadow,  deep  with  grass, 
wherein  the  red  sorrel  topped  the  yellow  buttercup,  like 
rust  upon  the  season's  gold.  Robert  hastened  on.  He  scarce 
at  the  moment  knew  the  man  whose  shoulder  he  seized,  but 
he  had  recog'nised  Dahlia  and  Rhoda,  and  he  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  Sedgett. 

"  It's  you !" 

"  Perhaps  you'll  keep  your  hands  off,  before  you  make 
sure,  another  time." 

Robert  said  :  "  I  really  beg  your  pardon.  Step  aside  with 
me." 

"Not  while  I've  a  ha'p'orth  o'  brains  in  my  noddle,"  replied 
Sedgett,  drawling  an  imitation  of  his  enemy's  courteous  tone. 
"  I've  come  for  my  wife.  I'm  just  down  by  train,  and  a  bit 
out  of  my  way,  I  reckon.  I'm  come,  and  I'm  in  a  hurry. 
She  shall  get  home,  and  have  on  her  things — boxes  packed, 
and  we  go." 

Robert  waved  Dahlia  and  Rhoda  to  speed  homeward. 
Anthony  had  fallen  against  the  roots  of  a  banking  elm,  and 
surveyed  the  scene  with  philosophic  abstractedness.  Rhoda 
moved,  taking  Dahlia's  hand. 

"  Stop,"  cried  Sedgett.  "  Do  you  people  here  think  me  a 
fool  ?  Eccles,  you  know  me  better'n  that.  That  young 
woman's  my  wife.     I've  come  for  her,  I  tell  ye." 

"  You've  no  claim  on  her,"  Rhoda  burst  forth  weakly,  and 
quivered,  and  turned  her  eyes  supplicatingly  on  Robert. 
Dahlia  was  a  statue  of  icy  fright. 

"  You've  thrown  her  off,  man,  and  sold  what  rights  you 
had,"  said  Robert,  spying  for  the  point  of  his  person  where 
he  might  grasp  the  wretch  and  keep  him  off. 


374  RUODA  FLEMING. 

"  That  don't  hold  in  law,"  Sedgett  nodded.  "A  man  may 
get  in  a  passion,  when  he  finds  he's  been  cheated,  mayn't 

110  .'' 

"I  have  your  word  of  honour,"  said  Rhoda;  muttering, 
"  Oil !  devil  come  to  wrong  us  !" 

"  Then,  you  shoulilut  ha'  I'un  ferreting  down  in  my  part 
o'  the  country.  You,  or  Eccles — I  don't  care  who  'tis — 
you've  been  at  my  servants  to  get  at  my  secrets.  Some  of 
you  have.  You've  declared  war.  Yviu've  been  tj-ying  to 
undermine  me.  That's  a  bi'cach,  I  cavl  it.  Anyhow,  I've 
come  for  my  wife.     I'll  have  her." 

"  None  of  us,  none  of  us  ;  no  one  has  bc^n  to  your  house," 
said  Rlioda,  vehemently.  "You  live  in  Hampshire,  sir,  I 
think;  I  dou't  know  any  more.  I  don't  know  where.  I  have 
not  asked  my  sister.     Oh  !  spare  us.  and  go." 

"  Xo  one  has  been  down  into  your  part  of  the  country," 
said  Robert,  with  perfect  inildness. 

To  which  Sedgett  answered  bluffly,  "  There  ye  lie,  Rob 
Eccles ;"  and  he  was  immediately  felled  by  a  tremendous 
blow.  Robert  strode  over  him,  and  taking  Dahlia  by  the 
elbow,  walked  three  paces  on,  as  to  set  her  in  motion. 
"  Olf  !"  he  cried  to  Rhoda,  whose  eyelids  cowered  under  the 
blaze  of  his  face. 

It  was  best  that  her  sister  should  be  away,  and  she  turned 
and  walked  swiftly,  hurrying  Dahlia,  and  touching  her. 
"  Oh  !  don't  touch  my  arm,"  Dahlia  said,  quailing  in  the  fall 
of  her  breath.  They  footed  together,  speechless  ;  taking  the 
woman's  quickest  gliding  step.  At  the  last  stile  of  the  fields, 
Rhoda  saw  that  they  were  not  followed.  She  stopped,  pant- 
ing :  her  heart  and  eyes  were  so  full  of  that  finming  creature 
who  was  her  lover.  Dahlia  took  from  lur  bosom  the  letter 
she  had  won  in  the  morning,  and  held  it  open-  in  both  hands 
to  read  it.  The  pause  was  short.  Dahlia  struck  the  letter 
into  her  bosom  again,  and  her  starved  features  had  some  of 
the  bloom  of  life.  She  kept  her  right  hand  in  her  pocket, 
and  Rhoda  pi'csently  asked — 

"  What  have  you  there  ':"' 

"  You  are  my  enemy,  dear,  in  some  things,"  Dahlia  replied, 
a  muscular  shiver  passing  over  her. 

"  I  think,"  said  Rhoda,  "  I  could  get  a  little  money  to  send 
you  away.  Will  you  go  ?  I  am  full  of  grief  for  what  I  have 
done.     God  forgive  me." 


THE  PARMER  IS  AWAKENED.  375 

**  Pray,  don't  speak  so ;  don't  let  ns  talk,"  said  Dahlia. 

Scorched  as  she  felt  both  in  soul  and  body,  a  touch  or  a 
word  was  a  wound  to  her.  Yet  she  was  the  first  to  resume : 
"  I  think  I  shall  be  saved.  I  can't  quite  feel  I  am  lost.  I 
have  not  been  so  wicked  as  that." 

Rhoda  gave  a  loving  answer,  and  again  Dahlia  shrank 
from  the  miserable  comfort  of  words. 

As  they  came  upon  the  green  fronting  the  iron  gateway, 
Rhoda  perceived  that  the  board  proclaiming  the  sale  of 
Queen  Anne's  Farm  had  been  removed,  and  now  she  under- 
stood her  father's  readiness  to  go  up  to  Wrexby  Hall.  "  He 
would  sell  me  to  save  the  farm."  She  reproached  herself  for 
the  thought,  but  she  could  not  be  just ;  she  had  the  image  of 
her  father  plodding  relentlessly  over  the  burnt  heath  to  the 
Hall,  as  conceived  by  her  agonized  sensations  in  the  morning, 
too  vividly  to  be  just,  though  still  she  knew  that  her  own 
indecision  was  to  blame. 

Master  Gammon  met  them  in  the  garden. 

Pointing  aloft,  over  the  gateway,  "  Tbat's  down,"  he 
remarked,  and  the  three  green  front  teeth  of  his  quiet  grin 
were  stamped  on  the  impressionable  vision  of  the  girls  in 
such  a  way  that  they  looked  at  one  another  with  a  bare  bitter 
smile.     Once  it  would  have  been  mirth. 

"  Tell  father,"  Dahlia  said,  when  they  were  at  the  back 
doorway,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  piteously,  and  she  bit  on  her 
underlip.  Rhoda  tried  to  detain  her ;  but  Dahlia  repeated, 
"  Tell  father,"  and  in  strength  and  in  will  had  become  more 
than  a  match  for  her  sister. 


CHAPTER  XLV 


THE   FARMER   IS   AWAKENED. 


Rhoda  spoke  to  her  father  from  the  doorway,  with  her 
hand  upon  the  lock  of  the  door. 

At  first  he  paid  little  attention  to  her,  and,  when  he  did 
so,  began  by  saying  that  he  hoped  she  knew  that  she  was 
bound  to  have  the  young  squire,  and  did  not  intend  to  be 
prankish  and  wilful ;  because  the  young  squire  was  eager  to 
Bettle  affairs,  that  he  might  be  settled  himself.     "  I  don't 


376  EnoDA  FLi:MiNa. 

deny  it's  an  honour  to  us,  nnd  it's  a  comfort,"  paid  tlie 
farmer.  "  This  is  the  first  moriiiiiLif  I've  thought  easily  in 
my  cliair  for  years.  I'm  sorry  about  liobert,  Avho's  a  twice 
unlucky  'un  ;  but  you  aimed  at  something  higher,  I 
suppose." 

Klioda  was  ])rompted  to  Kay  a  Mord  in  self-defence,  but 
refrained,  and  again  she  told  Dahlia's  story,  wondering  that 
her  father  showed  no  excitement  of  any  kind.  On  the  con- 
trary, there  was  the  dimple  of  one  of  his  voiceless  chuckles 
moving  about  the  hollow  of  one  cheek,  indicatiner  some  slow 
contemplative  action  that  was  not  unpleasant  within.  He 
said  :  "  Ah  !  well,  it's  very  sad ; — that  is,  if  'tis  so,"  and  no 
more,  for  a  time. 

She  discovered  that  he  was  referring  to  her  nncle  Anthony, 
concerning  whose  fortunate  position  in  tlie  world,  he  was 
beginning  to  entertain  some  doubts.  "  Or  else,"  said  the 
farmer,  with  a  tap  on  his  forehead,  "  he's  going  here.  It'd 
be  odd  after  all,  if  commercially,  as  he'd  call  it,  his  despised 
brother-in-law — and  I  say  it  in  all  kiiidnes.s — should  turn 
out  worth,  not  exactly  millions,  but  worth  a  triile." 

The  farmer  nodded  with  an  air  of  deprecating  satis- 
faction. 

llhoda  did  not  gain  his  ear  until,  as  by  an  instinct,  she 
perceived  what  interest  the  story  of  her  uncle  and  the 
money-bags  would  have  for  him.  She  related  it,  and  he 
was  roused.  Then,  for  the  third  time,  she  told  him  of 
Dahlia. 

Rhoda  saw  her  father's  chest  grow  large,  while  his  eyes 
quickened  with  light.  He  looked  on  her  with  quite  a 
strange  face.  Wrath,  and  a  revived  apprehension,  and  a 
fixed  will  were  expressed  in  it,  and  as  he  catechized  her  for 
each  particular  of  the  truth  which  had  been  concealed  from 
him,  she  felt  a  respectfulness  that  was  new  in  her  personal 
sensations  towai-d  her  father,  but  it  was  at  the  expense  of 
her  love. 

When  he  had  heard  and  comprehended  all,  he  said,  "Send 
the  girl  down  to  me." 

But  Rhoda  pleaded,  "  She  is  too  worn,  .she  is  tottering. 
She  cannot  endure  a  word  on  this ;  not  even  of  kindness  and 
help." 

"Then,  you,"  said  the  farmer,  "you  tell  her  she's  got  a 
duty  'a  her  first  duty  now.     Obedience  to  her  husband !     Do 


THE  FARMER  IS  AWAKENED.  377 

yon  hear  ?  Then,  let  her  hear  it.  Obedience  to  her  hus- 
band !  And  welcome's  the  man  when  he  calls  on  me.  He's 
welcome.     My   doors    are  open   to   him.     I  thank  him.     I 

honour  him.    I  bless  his  name.     It's  to  him  I  owe You 

go  up  to  her  and  say,  her  father  owes  it  to  the  young  man 
who's  married  her  that  he  can  lift  up  his  head.  Go  aloft. 
Ay  !  for  years  I've  been  suspecting  something  of  this.  I 
tell  ye,  girl,  I  don't  understand  about  church  doors,  and 
castin'  of  her  off — he's  come  for  her,  hasn't  he  ?  Then,  he 
Bhall  have  her.  I  tell  ye,  I  don't  understand  about  money : 
he's  married  her.  Well,  then,  she's  his  wife  ;  and  how  can 
he  bargain  not  to  see  her  ?" 

"  The  base  wretch  !"  cried  Rhoda. 

"  Hasn't  he  married  her  ?"  the  farmer  retorted.  "  Hasn't 
he  given  the  poor  creature  a  name  ?  I'm  not  for  abusing 
her,  but  him  I  do  thank,  and  I  say,  when  he  calls,  here's  my 
hand  for  him.     Here,  it's  out  and  waiting  for  him." 

"  Father,  if  you  let  me  see  it "     Rhoda  checked  the 

intemperate  outburst.  "  Father,  this  is  a  bad — a  bad  man. 
He  is  a  very  wicked  man.  We  were  all  deceived  by  him. 
Robert  knows  him.  He  has  known  him  for  years,  and 
knows  that  he  is  very  wicked.  This  man  maiTied  our 
Dahlia  to  get — "  Rhoda  gasped,  and  could  not  speak  it. 
*'  He  flung  her  off  with  horrible  words  at  the  church  door. 
After  this,  how  can  he  claim  her  ?  1  paid  him  all  he  had 
to  expect  with  uncle's  money,  for  his  promise  by  his  sacred 
oath  never,  never  to  disturb  or  come  near  my  sister.  After 
that  he  can't,  can't  claim  her.     If  he  does " 

"  He's  her  husband,"  inten-upted  the  farmer;  "when  he 
comes  here,  he's  welcome.  I  say  he's  welcome.  My  hand's 
out  to  him : — If  it's  alone  that  he's  saved  the  name  of 
Fleming  from  disgrace  !  I  thank  him,  and  my  daughter 
belongs  to  him.  Where  is  he  now  ?  You  talk  of  a  scuffle 
with  Robert.  I  do  hope  Robert  will  not  forget  his  proper 
behaviour.  Go  you  up  to  yoar  sister,  and  say  from  me — 
All's  forgotten  and  forgiven  ;  say,  It's  all  underfoot ;  but 
she  must  learn  to  be  a  good  girl  from  this  day.  And,  if 
she's  at  the  gate  to  welcome  her  husband,  so  much  the 
better  '11  her  father  be  pleased ; — say  that.  I  want  to  see 
the  man.  It'll  gratify  me  to  feel  her  husband's  flesh  and 
blood.     His  being  out  of  sight  so  long's  been  a  sore  at  my 


378  EHODA  FLEMING. 

heart ;  and  when  I  see  him  I'll  welcome  him,  and  so  must 
all  ill  my  house." 

Tliis  -was  how  William  Fleming  received  the  confession  of 
his  (lan<:^hter's  iiTihappy  pliLrht. 

Rhoila  might  have  pleaded  Dahlia's  case  better,  but  that 
she  was  too  shocked  and  outraged  by  the  selfishness  she 
saw  in  her  father,  and  the  partial  desire  to  scourge  which 
she  was  too  intuitively  keen  at  the  moment  not  to  perceive 
in  the  paternal  forgiveness,  and  in  the  stipulation  of  the 
forgiveness. 

She  went  upstairs  to  Dahlia,  simply  stating  that  their 
father  was  aware  of  all  the  circumstances. 

Dalilia  lookcMl  at  her,  but  dared  ask  notliinq-. 

So  the  day  passed.  Neither  Robert  nor  Anf  hony  appearedv 
The  night  came :  all  doors  were  locked.  The  sisters  that 
night  slept  together,  feeling  the  very  pulses  of  the  hours  ; 
yet  neither  of  them  absolutely  hopelessly,  although  in  a 
great  anguish. 

Rhodawas  dressed  by  daylight.  The  old  familiar  country 
about  the  house  lay  still  as  if  it  knew  no  expectation. 
She  observed  Master  Gammon  tramping  forth  afield,  and 
presently  heard  her  father's  voice  below.  All  the  machinery 
of  the  daily  life  got  into  motion ;  but  it  was  evident  that 
Robert  and  Anthony  continued  to  be  absent.  A  thought 
struck  her  that  Robert  had  killed  the  man.  It  came  with  a 
flash  of  joy  that  was  speedily  terror,  and  she  fell  to  praying 
vehemently  and  vag"ely.  Dahlia  lay  exhausted  on  the  bed, 
but  nigh  the  hour  w'^en  letters  were  delivered,  she  sat  up, 
saying,  "  There  is  one  for  me;  get  it." 

There  was  in  truth  a  letter  for  her  below,  and  it  was  in 
her  father's  hand  and  open. 

"  Come  out,"  said  the  farmer,  as  Rhoda  entered  to  him. 
When  they  were  in  the  garden,  he  commanded  her  to  read 
and  tell  him  the  meaning  of  it.  The  letter  was  addressed 
to  Dahlia  Fleming. 

"  It'u  for  my  sister,"  Rhoda  murmured,  in  anger,  but  mora 
in  fear. 

She  was  sternly  bidden  to  read,  and  she  read  :— 

"DATTrJA, 

"  There  is  mercy  for  us.     You  are  not  lost  to  me. 

"  Edward.** 


THE  PARMER  IS  AWAKENED.  379 

After  this,  was  appended  in  a  feminine  liand  : — 

"  There  is  really  hope.  A  few  hours  will  tell  ns.  But 
keep  firm.  If  he  comes  near  you,  keep  from  him.  You  are 
not  his.  Run,  hide,  go  anywhere,  if  you  have  reason  to  think 
he  is  near.  I  dare  not  write  what  it  is  we  expect.  Yesterday 
I  told  you  to  hope  ;  to-day  I  can  say,  believe  that  you  will  be 
saved.  You  are  not  lost.  Everything  depends  on  your 
firmness. 

"Margaret  L." 

Rhoda  lifted  up  her  eyes. 

The  farmer  seized  the  letter,  and  laid  his  finger  on  the 
first  signature. 

"  Is  that  the  christian  name  of  my  girl's  seducer  ?" 

He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  turned  and  went  in  to 
the  breakfast-table,  when  he  ordered  a  tray  with  breakfast 
for  Dahlia  to  be  taken  up  to  her  bed-room ;  and  that  done, 
he  himself  turned  the  key  of  the  door,  and  secured  her.  Mute 
woe  was  on  Mrs.  Sumfit's  face  at  all  these  strange  doings, 
but  none  heeded  her,  and  she  smothered  her  lamentations. 
The  farmer  spoke  nothing  either  of  Robert  or  of  Anthony. 
He  sat  in  his  chair  till  the  dinner  hour,  without  book  or  pipe, 
without  occupation  for  eyes  or  hands ;  silent,  but  acute  in 
his  hearing. 

The  afternoon  brought  relief  to  Rhoda's  apprehensions. 
A  messenger  ran  up  to  the  farm  bearing  a  pencilled  note  to 
her  from  Robert,  which  said  that  he,  in  company  with  her 
uncle,  was  holding  Sedgett  at  a  distance  by  force  of  arm,  and 
that  there  was  no  fear.  Rhoda  kissed  the  words,  hurrying 
away  to  the  fields  for  a  few  minutes  to  thank  and  bless  and 
dream  of  him  who  had  said  that  there  was  no  fear.  She 
knew  that  Dahlia  was  unconscious  of  her  imprisonment,  and 
had  less  compunction  in  counting  the  minutes  of  her  absence. 
The  sun  spread  in  yellow  and  fell  in  red  before  she  thought 
of  returning,  so  sweet  it  had  become  to  her  to  let  her  mind 
dwell  with  Robert ;  and  she  was  half  a  stranger  to  the  mourn- 
fulness  of  the  house  when  she  set  her  steps  homeward.  But 
when  she  lifted  the  latch  of  the  gate,  a  sensation,  prompted 
by  some  unwitting  self-accusal,  struck  her  with  alarm.  She 
passed  into  the  room,  and  beheld  her  father,  and  Mrs.  Sumfit, 
who  was  sitting  rolling,  with  her  apron  over  her  head. 

The  man  Sedgett  was  between  them. 


380 


EUODA  FLEMING, 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

WHEN  THE  NIGHT  IS  DARKEST 

No  sooner  had  Itlioda  appeared  than  her  father  held  np 
the  key  of  Dahlia's  bed-room,  and  said,  "  Unlock  your  sister, 
and  fetch  her  down  to  her  husband." 

Mechanically  Rhoda  took  the  key. 

"  And  leave  our  door  open,"  he  added. 

She  went  up  to  Dahlia,  sick  with  a  sudden  fricrht  lest  evil 
had  come  to  Robert,  seeing  that  his  enemy  was  here ;  but 
that  was  swept  from  her  by  Dahlia's  aspect. 

"  He  is  in  the  house,"  Dahlia  said  ;  and  asked,  "Was there 
no  letter — no  letter;  none,  this  morning  ?" 

Rhoda  clasped  her  in  her  arms,  seeking  to  check  the  con- 
vulsions of  her  trembling. 

"No  letter!  no  letter!  none?  not  any?  Oh!  no  letter 
for  me  !" 

The  strange  varying  tones  of  musical  interjection  and 
interrogation  were  pitiful  to  hear. 

"  Did  you  look  for  a  letter  ?"  said  Rhoda,  despising  herself 
for  so  speaking. 

"  He  is  in  the  house  !     Where  is  my  letter  ?" 

"  What  was  it  you  hoped  ?  what  was  it  you  expected, 
darling  ?" 

Dahlia  moaned  :  "  I  don't  know.  I'm  blind.  I  was  told 
to  hope.  Yesterday  I  had  my  letter,  and  it  told  me  to  hope. 
He  is  in  the  house  !" 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  love !"  cried  Rhoda;  "come  down  a 
minute.  See  him.  It  is  father's  wish.  Come  only  for  a 
minute.     Come,  to  gain  time,  if  there  is  hope." 

"Rut  thex-e  Avas  no  letter  for  me  this  morning,  Rhoda. 
I  can't  hope.     I  am  lost.     He  is  in  the  house  1" 

"  Dearest,  there  was  a  letter,"  said  Rhoda,  doubting  that 
sill!  did  well  in  revealing  it. 

Dahlia  put  out  her  hands  dumb  for  the  letter. 

"  Father  opened  it,  and  read  it,  and  keeps  it,"  said  Rhoda, 
clinging  tight  to  the  stricken  form. 

"  Then,  he  is  against  me  ?  Oh,  my  letter  !"  Dahlia 
wrung  her  hands. 


WHEN  THE  NIGHT  IS  DARKEST.  381 

While  they  were  speaking,  their  father's  voice  was  heard 
below  calling  for  Dahlia  to  descend.  He  came  tkrice  to  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  and  shouted  for  her. 

The  third  time  he  uttered  a  thi-eat  that  sprang  an  answer 
from  her  bosom  in  shrieks. 

Rhoda  went  out  on  the  landing  and  said  softly,  '*  Come  up 
to  her,  father." 

After  a  little  hesitation,  he  ascended  the  stairs. 

"  Why,  girl,  I  only  ask  you  to  come  down  and  see  your 
husband,"  he  remarked  with  an  attempt  at  kindliness  of 
tone.  "  What's  the  harm,  then  'i  Come  and  see  him ;  that's 
all ;  come  and  see  him." 

Dahlia  was  shrinking  out  of  her  father's  sight  as  he  stood 
in  the  doorway.  "  Say,"  she  communicated  to  Rhoda,  "  say, 
I  want  my  letter." 

"  Come  !"  William  Fleming  grew  impatient, 

"  Let  her  have  her  letter,  father,"  said  Rhoda.  "  Tou 
have  no  right  to  withhold  it." 

"  That  lettei-,  my  girl  "  (he  touched  Rhoda's  shoulder  as 
to  satisfy  her  that  he  was  not  angry),  "  that  letter's  where  it 
ought  to  be.  I've  puzzled  out  the  meaning  of  it.  That 
letter's  in  her  husband's  possession." 

Dahlia,  with  her  ears  stretching  for  all  that  might  be 
uttered,  heard  this.  Passing  round  the  door,  she  fronted 
her  father. 

"  My  letter  gone  to  him .'"  she  cried.  "  Shameful  old 
man !  Can  you  look  on  me  ?  Father,  could  you  give  it  ? 
I'm  a  dead  woman." 

She  smote  her  bosom,  stumbling  backward  upon  Rhoda's 
arm. 

"  You  have  been  a  wicked  girl,"  the  ordinarily  unmoved 
old  man  retorted.  "  Tour  husband  has  come  for  you,  and 
you  go  with  him.  Know  that,  and  let  me  hear  no  threats. 
He's  a  modest-minded,  quiet  young  man,  and  a  farmer  like 
myself,  and  needn't  be  better  than  he  is.  Come  you  down 
to  him  at  once.  I'll  tell  you :  he  comes  to  take  you  away, 
and  his  cart's  at  the  gate.  To  the  gate  you  go  with  him. 
When  next  I  see  you — you  visiting  me  or  I  visiting  you — I 
shall  see  a  respected  creature,  and  not  what  you  have  been, 
and  want  to  be.  Tou  have  racked  the  household  with  fear 
and  shame  for  years.  InTow  come,  and  carry  out  what  you've 
began  in  the  contrary  direction.     Tou've  got  my  word  o* 


382  EHODA  PLEMINO, 

command,  dead  "woman  or  live  woman.  Rhoda,  take  one 
elbow  of  yonr  sister.  Your  aunt's  coming  up  to  pack  her 
box.  I  say  I'm  determined,  and  no  one  stops  me  when  I  say 
that.  Come  out,  Dahlia,  and  let  our  parting  be  like  between 
parent  and  child.  Here's  the  dark  falling,  and  your  hus- 
band's anxious  to  be  away,  fie  has  business,  and  '11  hardly 
get  you  to  the  station  for  the  last  train  to  town.  Hark  at 
him  below  !  He's  naturally  astonished,  he  is ;  and  you're 
trying  his  temper,  as  you'd  try  any  mans.  He  wants  to  bo 
off.  Come,  and  when  next  we  meet  I  shall  see  you  a  happy 
wife." 

He  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  a  corpse. 

"  Speak  to  her  still,  father,"  said  Rhoda,  as  she  drew  a 
chair  upon  which  she  leaned  her  sister's  body,  and  ran  down 
full  of  the  power  of  hate  and  loathing  to  confront  Sedgett ; 
but  great  as  was  that  power  within  her,  it  was  overmatched 
by  his  brutal  resolution  to  take  his  wife  away.  No  argu- 
ment, no  irony,  no  appeals,  can  long  withstand  the  iteration 
of  a  dogged  phrase.  "  I've  come  for  my  wife,"  Sedgett  said 
to  all  her  instances.  His  voice  was  waxing  loud  and  inso- 
lent,  and,  as  it  sounded,  Mrs.  Sumfit  moaned  and  flapped 
her  apron. 

"  Then,  how  could  you.  have  married  him  ?" 

They  heard  the  farmer's  roar  of  this  unanswerable  thing, 
aloft. 

"  Yes — how  !  how  !"  cried  Rhoda  below,  ntterly  for- 
getting the  part  she  had  played  in  the  marriage. 

"  It's  too  late  to  hate  a  man  when  you've  married  him,  my 
girl." 

Sedgett  went  out  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"Mr.  Fleming, — she's  my  wife.  I'll  teach  her  about 
hating  and  loving.  I'll  behave  well  to  her,  I  swear.  I'm  in 
the  midst  of  enemies ;  but  I  say  I  do  love  my  wife,  and  I've 
come  for  her,  and  have  her  I  will.  Now,  in  two  minutes' 
time.  Mr.  Fleming,  my  cart's  at  the  gate,  and  I've  got 
business,  and  she's  my  wife." 

The  farmer  called  for  Mrs.  Sumfit  to  come  up  and  pack 
Dahlia's  box,  and  the  forlorn  woman  made  her  way  to  the 
bedroom.  All  the  house  was  silent.  Rhoda  closed  her 
eight,  and  she  thought :  "  Does  God  totally  abandon  us  ?" 

She  let  her  father  hear  :  "  Father,  you  know  that  you  are 
killing  your  child." 


WHEN  THE  NIGHT  IS  DARKEST.  *^^^ 

"  I  Lear  ye,  my  lass,"  said  he. 

«  She  will  die,  father." 

*'  I  hear  ye,  I  hear  ye." 

*'  She  will  die,  father." 

He  stamped  furiously,  exclaiming :  "  "Who's  got  the  law 
of  her  better  and  above  a  husband  ?  Hear  reason,  and  come 
and  help  and  fetch  down  your  sister.     She  goes  !" 

"  Father  !"  Rhoda  cried,  looking  at  her  open  hands,  as  if 
she  marvelled  to  see  them  helpless. 

There  was  for  a  time  that  silence  which  reigns  in  a  sick- 
chamber  when  the  man  of  medicine  takes  the  patient's  wrist. 
And  in  the  silence  came  a  blessed  sound — the  lifting  of  a 
latch.     Rhoda  saw  !^obert's  face. 

"  So,"  said  Robert,  as  she  neared  him,  "you  needn't  tell 
me  what's  happened.  Here's  the  man,  1  see.  He  dodged 
me  cleverly.  The  hound  wants  practice ;  the  fox  is  born 
with  his  cunning." 

Few  words  were  required  to  make  him  understand  the 
position  of  things  in  the  house.  Rhoda  spoke  out  all  with- 
out hesitation  in  Sedgett's  hearing. 

But  the  farmer  respected  Robert  enough  to  come  down  to 
him  and  explain  his  views  of  his  duty  and  his  daughter's 
duty.  By  the  kitchen  firelight  he  and  Robert  and  Sedgett 
read  one  another's  countenances. 

"  He  has  a  proper  claim  to  take  his  wife,  Robert,"  said 
the  farmer.  "  He's  righted  her  before  the  world,  and  I 
thank  him  ;  and  if  he  asks  for  her  of  me  he  m.ust  have  her, 
and  he  shall." 

"All  right,  sir,"  replied  Robert,  "and  I  say  too,  shall, 
when  I'm  stiff  as  log-wood." 

"  Oh  !  Robert,  Robert !"  Rhoda  cried  in  great  joy. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  step  'twixt  me  and  my  own  ?" 
said  Mr.  Fleming. 

"  I  won't  let  you  nod  at  downright  murder — that's  all," 
said  Robert.  "  She — Dahlia,  take  the  hand  of  that  crea- 
ture !" 

"  Why  did  she  marry  me  ?"  thundered  Sedgett. 

"  There's  one  o'  the  wonders  !"  Robert  rejoined.  "  Except 
that  you're  an  amazingly  clever  hypocrite  with  women  ;  and 
she  was  just  half  dead  and  had  no  will  of  her  own ;  and 
Bome  one  set  you  to  hunt  her  down.    1  tell  you,  Mr.  Fleming, 


384  RnODA  FLEMINO. 

you  might  aa  well  send  your  daughter  to  the  hangman  as 
put  lier  in  this  fellow's  hands." 

"  She's  his  wife,  man." 

"  ^lay  be,"  Robert  assented. 

"  You,  Ilobcrt  Eccles  !"  said  Sedgett  hoarsely ;  "  I've  come 
for  my  wife^lo  you  hear  Y" 

"  You  have,  I  dare  say,"  returned  Robert.  "  You  dodged 
me  cleverly,  that  you  did.  I'd  like  to  know  how  it  was 
done.  I  see  you've  got  a  cart  outside  and  a  boy  at  the 
horse's  head.  The  horse  steps  well,  does  he  ?  I'm  about 
three  hours  behind  him,  I  reckon  : — not  too  late,  though  1" 

He  let  fall  a  great  breath  of  weariness. 

Rhoda  went  to  the  cupboard  and  drew  forth  a  rarely- 
touched  bottle  of  spirits,  with  which  she  filled  a  small  glass, 
and  handiiii,^  the  glass  to  him,  said,  "  Drink."  He  smiled 
kindly  and  drank  it  off. 

"  The  man's  in  your  house,  Mr.  Fleming,"  he  said. 

"  And  he's  my  guest,  and  my  daughter's  husband,  re- 
member that,"  said  the  farmer. 

"And  mean  to  Avait  not  half  a  minute  longer  till  I've 
taken  her  oif — mark  that,"  Sedgett  struck  in.  "  Now,  Mr. 
Fleming,  you  see  you  keep  good  your  word  to  me." 

"  I'll  do  no  less,"  said  the  farmer,  lie  went  into  the  pa(% 
Bage  shouting  for  Mrs.  Sumtit  to  bring  down  the  box. 

"  She  begs,"  Mrs.  Sumfit  answei-ed  to  him — "  she  begs, 
■William,  on'y  a  short  five  minutes  to  pray  by  herself,  which 
you  will  grant  unto  her,  dear,  you  will.  Lord  !  what's  come 
upon  us  ?" 

"  Quick,  and  down  with  the  box,  then,  mother,"  he  rejoined 

The  box  was  dragged  out,  and  Dahlia's  door  was  shut, 
that  she  might  have  her  last  minutes  alone.  • 

Rhoda  kissed  her  sister  before  leaving  her  alone  :  and  so 
cold  Avere  Dahlia's  lips,  so  tight  the  clutch  of  her  hands, 
that  she  said:  "  Dearest,  thinkof  God:"  and  Dahlia  replied: 
"  I  do." 

"  He  will  not  forsake  you,"  Rhoda  said. 

Dahlia  nodded,  with  shut  eyes,  and  Rhoda  went  forth. 

"And  now,  Robert,  you  and  I'll  see  who's  master  on  these 
premises,"  said  the  farmer.  "Hear,  all!  I'm  bounden  under 
a  sacred  obligation  to  the  husband  of  my  child,  and  the 
Lord's  wrath  on  him  who  interferes  and  lifts  his  hand 
against  me  when  I  perform  my  sacred  duty  as  a  father. 


WHEN  THE  NIGHT  IS  DARKEST.  385 

Place  there !  I'm  going-  to  open  the  door,  RhocTa,  see  to  your 
sister's  bonnet  and  things.  Robert,  stand  out  of  my  way. 
There's  no  refreshment  of  any  sort  you'll  accept  of  before 
starting,  Mr.  Sedgett  ?  None  at  all !  That's  no  fault  of 
my  hospitality.     Stand  out  of  my  "svay,  Robert." 

He  was  obeyed.  Robert  looked  at  Rhoda,  but  had  no 
reply  for  her  gaze  of  despair. 

The  farmer  threw  the  door  wide  open. 

There  wei-e  people  in  the  garden — strangers.  His  name 
was  inquired  for  out  of  the  dusk.  Then  whisperings  were 
heard  passing  among  the  ill-discerned  forms,  and  the  farmer 
went  out  to  them.  Robert  listened  keenly,  but  the  touch  of 
Rhoda's  hand  upon  his  own  distracted  his  hearing.  "Yet 
it  must  be  !"  he  said.     "Why  does  she  come  here  ?" 

Both  he  and  Rhoda  followed  the  farmer's  steps,  drawn 
forth  by  the  ever-credulous  eagerness  which  arises  from  an 
interruption  to  excited  wretchedness.  Near  and  nearer  to 
the  group,  they  heard  a  quaint  old  woman  exclaim :  "  Come 
here  to  you  for  a  wife,  Avhen  he  has  one  of  his  own  at  home ; 
— a  poor  thing  he  shipped  off  to  America,  thinking  himself 
more  cunning  than  devils  or  angels  :  and  she  got  put  out 
at  a  port,  owing  to  stress  of  weather,  to  defeat  the  man's 
wickedness  !  Can't  I  prove  it  to  you,  sir,  he's  a  married 
man,  which  none  of  us  in  our  village  knew  till  the  poc" 
tricked  thing  crawled  back  penniless  to  find  him; — and  there 
she  is  now  with  such  a  story  of  his  cunning  to  tell  to  any- 
body as  wi:l  listen  ; — and  why  he  kept  it  secret  to  get  her 
pension  paid  h'm  still  on.  It's  all  such  a  tale  for  you  to 
hear  by-and-by." 

Robert  burst  into  a  glorious  laugh. 

"  Why,  mother  !  Mrs.  Boulby !  haven't  you  got  a  word 
for  me  ?" 

"  My  blessedcst  Robert !"  the  good  woman  cried,  as  she 
rushed  up  to  kiss  him.  "  Though  it  wasn't  to  see  you  I 
came  exactly."  She  whispered  :  "  The  Major  and  the  good 
gentleman — they're  behind.  I  travelled  down  with  tliem. 
Dear, — you'd  like  to  know: — Mrs.  Lovell  sent  her  little 
cunning  groom  down  to  Warbeach  just  two  weeks  back  to 
make  inquiries  about  that  villain;  and  the  groom  left  me  her 
address,  in  case,  my  dear,  when  the  poor  creature — his  true 
wife — crawled  home,  and  we  knew  of  her  at  Three-Tree 
Farm  and  knew  her  story.     I  wrote  word  at  once,  I  did,  to 

2  c 


386  EnODA  PLFMmO. 

Mrs.  Lovcll,  and  the  sweet  good  lady  sent  down  her  groom 
to  fetch  me  to  you  to  make  things  clear  here.  You  shall 
nnderstami  them  soon.  It's  Providt'iico  at  work.  I  do 
believe  that  now  there's  a  chance  o'  punishing  the  wicked 
ones," 

The  figure  of  lUioda  witli  two  lights  in  her  liand  was  seen 
in  the  porch,  and  by  the  shadowy  rays  she  bflicld  old  Anthony 
leaning  against  the  house,  and  Alajor  Wariug  with  a  gentle- 
man beside  him  close  upon  the  gate. 

At  the  same  time  a  sound  of  wheelrs  was  hoard. 

Robert  rushed  back  into  the  great  parlour- kitchen,  and 
finding  it  empty,  stamped  with  vexation.  His  prey  had 
escaped. 

But  there  was  no  relapse  to  give  spare  thoughts  to  that 
pollution  of  the  house.  It  had  passed.  Major  Waring  was 
talking  earnestly  to  'Mr.  Fleming,  who  held  his  head  low, 
stupetied,  and  aware  only  of  the  fact  tlint  it  was  a  gentleman 
imparting  to  him  strange  matters.  By  degrees  all  were 
beneath  the  fai-mcr's  roof — all,  save  one,  who  stood  with 
bowed  head  by  the  threshold. 

There  is  a  sort  of  hero,  and  a  sort  of  villain,  to  this  story: 
they  are  but  instruments.  Hero  and  villain  are  combined  in 
the  person  of  Edward,  who  was  now  here  to  abase  himself 
before  the  old  man  and  the  family  he  had  injured,  and  to 
kneel  penitently  at  the  feet  of  the  woman  who  had  just 
reason  to  spurn  him.  He  had  sold  her  as  a  slave  is  sold ; 
he  had  seen  her  plunged  into  the  blackest  pit ;  yet  was  she 
miraculously  kept  pui'c  for'him,  and  if  she  could  give  him 
her  pardon,  might  still  be  liis.  The  grief  for  which  he  could 
ask  no  compassion  had  at  least  purified  him  to  meet  her 
embrace.  The  great  agony  he  had  passed  through  of  late 
had  killed  his  meaner  pride.  He  stood  there  r'feady  to  come 
forward  and  ask  forgiveness  from  unfriendly  faces,  and  beg 
that  he  might  be  in  Dahlia's  eyes  once — that  he  might  see 
her  once. 

He  had  grown  to  love  her  with  the  fullest  force  of  a 
selfish,  though  not  a  common,  nature.  Or  rather  he  had 
always  loved  her,  and  much  of  the  selfishness  had  fallen 
away  from  his  love.  It  was  not  the  highest  form  of  love, 
but  the  love  was  his  highest  development.  He  had  heard 
that  Dahlia,  lost  to  him,  wai  free.  Something  like  the 
mortal  yearning  to  look  upon  <he  dead  risen  to  life,  made  it 


WHEN  THE  NIGHT  IS  DARKEST.  387 

impossible  for  him  to  remain  absent  and  in  doubt.  He  was 
ready  to  submit  to  every  humiliation  that  he  might  see  the 
rescued  features  ;  he  was  willing  to  pay  all  his  penalties. 
Believing,  too,  that  he  was  forgiven,  he  knew  that  Dahlia's 
heart  would  throb  for  him  to  be  near  her,  and  he  had 
come. 

The  miraculous  agencies  which  had  brought  him  and 
Major  Waring  and  Mrs.  Boulby  to  the  farm,  that  exalted 
woman  was  I'elating  to  Mrs.  Sumfit  in  another  part  of  the 
house. 

The  farmer,  and  Percy,  and  Robert  were  in  the  family 
sitting-room,  when,  after  an  interval,  "William  Fleming  said 
aloud,  "  Come  in,  sir,"  and  Edward  stepped  in  among  them. 

Rhoda  was  above,  seeking  admittance  to  her  sister's  door, 
and  she  heard  her  father  utter  that  welcome.  It  froze  her 
limbs,  for  still  she  hated  the  evil-doer.  Her  hatred  of  him 
was  a  passion.  She  crouched  over  the  stairs,  listening  to  a 
low  and  long-toned  voice  monotonously  telling  what  seemed 
to  be  one  sole  thing  over  and  over,  without  variation,  in  the 
room  where  the  men  were.  Words  were  indistinguishable. 
Thrice,  after  calling  to  Dahlia  and  getting  no  response,  she 
listened  again,  and  awe  took  her  soul  at  last,  for,  abhorred 
as  he  was  by  her,  his  power  was  felt :  she  comprehended 
something  of  that  earnestness  which  made  the  offender  speak 
of  his  wrongful  deeds,  and  his  shame,  and  his  remorse,  before 
his  fellow-men,  straight  out  and  calmly,  like  one  who  has 
been  plunged  up  to  the  middle  in  the  fires  of  the  abyss,  and 
is  thereafter  insensible  to  meaner  pains.  The  voice  ended. 
She  was  then  aware  that  it  had  put  a  charm  upon  her  ears. 
The  other  voices  following  it  sounded  dull. 

"  Has  he — can  he  have  confessed  in  words  all  his  wicked 
baseness  ?"  she  thought,  and  in  her  soul  the  magnitude  of 
his  crime  threw  a  gleam  of  splendour  on  his  courage,  even 
at  the  bare  thought  that  he  might  have  done  this.  Feeling 
that  Dahlia  was  saved,  and  thenceforth  at  liberty  to  despise 
him  and  torture  him,  Rhoda  the  more  readily  acknowledged 
that  it  mierht  be  a  true  love  for  her  sister  animating  him. 
From  the  height  of  a  possible  vengeance  it  was  perceptible. 

She  turned  to  her  sister's  door  and  knocked  at  it,  calling 
to  her,  "  Safe,  safe  !"  but  there  came  no  answer ;  and  she 
was  half  glad,  for  she  had  a  fear  that  in  the  quick  revulsion 
of  her  sister's  feelings,  mere   earthly  love  would   act  like 

2c2 


388  RHODA  PLEMINa. 

heavenly  charity,  and  Edward  would  find  himself  forgiven 
only  too  instantly  and  heartily. 

In  the  small  musk-scontcd  guest's  parlour,  Mrs.  Boulby 
w^as  giving  Mrs.  Sumtit  and  poor  old  sleepy  Anthony  the 
account  of  the  miraculous  discovery  of  Sedgett's  wickedness, 
which  had  vindicated  all  one  hoped  for  from  Above  ;  as  also 
the  narration  of  tlie  stabl)ing  of  her  boy,  and  the  heroism 
and  grcat-hcartedness  of  Robert.  Rhoda  listened  to  her  for 
a  space,  and  went  to  her  sister's  door  again ;  but  when  she 
stood  outside  the  kitchen  she  found  all  voices  silent  within. 

It  was,  in  trutli,  not  only  very  diilicult  for  William  Fleming 
to  change  his  view  of  the  complexion  of  circumstances  as 
rapidly  as  circumstances  themselves  changed,  but  it  was 
veiy  bitter  for  him  to  look  upon  Edward,  and  to  see  him  in 
the  place  of  Sedgett.  He  had  been  struck  dumb  by  the 
sudden  revolution  of  affairs  in  his  house  ;  and  he  had  been 
deferentially  convinced  by  Major  Waring's  tone  that  he 
ought  rightly  to  give  his  hearing  to  an  unknown  young 
gentleman  against  whom  anger  was  due.  He  had  listened 
to  Edward  without  one  particle  of  comprehension,  except  of 
the  fact  that  his  behaviour  was  extraordinary,  lie  under- 
stood that  every  admission  made  by  Edward  with  such 
grave  and  strange  directness,  would  justly  have  condemned 
him  to  puuishniunt  which  the  culprit's  odd,  and  upright,  and 
even-toned  self-denunciation  rendered  it  impossible  to  think 
of  inflicting.  He  knew  likewise  that  a  whole  history  was 
being  naiiated  to  him,  and  that,  alth  )ugh  the  other  two 
listeners  manifestly  did  not  approve  it,  they  expected  him  to 
show  some  tolerance  to  the  speaker. 

He  said  once,  "  Robert,  do  me  the  favour  to  look  about 
outside  for  t'other."  Robert  answered  him,  that  the  man 
was  far  away  by  this  time. 

The  farmer  suggested  that  he  might  be  waiting  to  say  his 
word  presently. 

"  Don't  you  know  you've  been  dealing  Avith  a  villain, 
sir?"  cried  Robei't.  "Throw  ever  so  little  liglit  upon  one 
of  that  bi-eed,  and  they  skulk  in  a  hurry.  Mr.  Eleming,  for 
the  sake  of  your  honour,  don't  mention  him  again.  What 
you're  asked  to  do  now,  is  to  bury  the  thoughts  of  him." 

"  He  righted  my  daughter  when  there  was  shame  on  her,'* 
the  farmer  replied. 

That  was  the  idea  printed  simply  on  his  understanding. 


WHEN  THE  NIGHT  IS  DARKEST.  389 

For  Edward  to  hear  it  was  worse  than  a  scourging  with 
rods.  He  bore  it,  telling  the  last  vitality  of  his  pride  to 
sleep,  and  comforting  himself  with  the  drowsy  sensuous 
expectation  that  he  was  soon  to  press  the  hand  of  his  lost 
one,  his  beloved,  who  was  in  the  house,  breathing  the  same 
air  with  him  ;  was  perhaps  in  the  room  above,  perhaps 
sitting  impatiently  with  clasped  fingers,  waiting  for  the 
signal  to  unlock  them  and  fling  them  open.  He  could 
imagine  the  damp  touch  of  very  expectant  fingers ;  the 
dying  look  of  life-drinking  eyes  ;  and,  oh !  the  helj)lessness 
of  her  limbs  as  she  sat  buoying  a  heart  drowned  in  bliss. 

It  was  unknown  to  him  that  the  pei'il  of  her  uttermost 
misery  had  been  so  imminent,  and  the  picture  conjured  of 
her  in  his  mind  was  that  of  a  gentle  but  troubled  face — a 
;oul  afflicted,  yet  hoping  because  it  had  been  told  to  hope, 
and  half  conscious  that  a  rescue,  almost  divine  in  its  sudden- 
'less  and  unexpectedness,  and  its  perfect  clearing  away  of 
all  shadows,  approached. 

Manifestly,  by  the  pallid  cast  of  his  visage,  he  had  tasted 
shrewd  and  wasting  grief  of  late.  Robert's  heart  melted  as 
he  beheld  the  change  in  Edward. 

"  I  believe,  Mr.  Blancove,  I'm  a  little  to  blame,"  he  said. 
"  Perhaps  when  I  behaved  so  badly  down  at  Fairly,  you 
may  have  thought  she  sent  me,  and  it  set  your  heart  against 
her  for  a  time.     I  can  just  understand  how  it  might." 

Edward    thought    for    a    moment,    and    conscientiously 

accepted  the  suggestion  ;  for,  standing  under  that  roof,  with 

her  whom  he  loved  near  him,  it  was  absolutely  out  of  his 

ower  for  him  to  comprehend  that  his  wish  to  break  from 

)ahlia,  and  the  measures  he  had  taken  or  consented  to,  had 

prung  from  his  own  unassisted  temporary  baseness. 

Then  Robert  spoke  to  the  farmer. 

Rhoda  could  hear  Rober-t's  words.  Her  fear  was  that 
Dahlia  might  hear  them  too,  his  pleading  for  Edward  was 
so  hearty.  "  Yet  why  should  I  always  think  differently 
from  Robert  ?"  she  asked  hei-self,  and  with  that  excuse  for 
changing,  partially  thawed. 

She  was  very  anxious  for  her  father's  reply  ;  and  it  was 
late  in  coming-.  She  felt  that  he  was  unconvinced.  But 
suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  the  farmer  called  into  the 
darkness — 

"  Dahlia  down  here  !" 


390  RnODA  FLEMINa. 

Previonsly  emotionless,  an  emotion  was  started  in  Rlioda's 
bosom  by  the  command,  and  it  was  gladness.  She  ran  up 
and  knocked,  and  found  herself  crying  out:  "lie  is  hex'e-^ 
Kdward." 

But  there  came  no  answer. 

"  Kdward  is  here.     Come,  come  and  see  him." 

Still  not  one  faint  reply. 

*'  Dahlia  !  Dahlia  !" 

The  call  of  Dalilia's  name  seemed  to  travel  endlessly  on. 

Rhoila  knelt,  and  puttin<»'  her  mouth  to  the  door,  said: 

"My  darliii','',  1  know  you  will  reply  to  me.  1  know  yoa 
do  not  doubt  me  now.  Listen.  You  are  to  come  down  to 
happiness." 

The  silence  grew  heavier;  and  now  a  doubt  came  shriek- 
ing through  her  soul. 

"  Father  !"  rang  her  outcry. 

The  father  came  ;  and  then  the  lover  came,  and  neither  to 
father  nor  to  lover  was  there  any  word  from  Dahlias  voice. 

She  was  found  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  inanimate,  and  pale 
as  a  sister  of  death. 

But  you  who  may  have  cared  for  her  through  her  many 
tribulations,  have  no  fear  for  this  gentle  heart.  It  was  near 
tlie  worst;  yet  not  the  woist. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

DAWN  IS  NEAR. 


Up  to  the  blacTc  gates,  but  not  beyond  them.  The  dawn 
following  such  a  night  will  seem  more  like  a  daughter  of 
the  night  than  ])i'omi.se  of  day.  It  is  day  that  follows,  not- 
withstanding. The  sad  fair  girl  survived,  and  her  flickering 
life  was  the  sole  light  of  the  household;  at  times  buiyiug 
its  members  in  dusk,  to  shine  on  them  again  more  like  a 
prolonged  farewell  than  a  gladsome  restoi-ation. 

She  was  saved  by  what  we  call  chance ;  for  it  had  not 
been  in  her  design  to  save  herself.  The  hand  was  tirm  to 
help  her  to  the  deadly  diaught.     As  far  as  could  be  con- 


DAWN  IS  NEAR.  391 

jectured,  she  had  drunk  it  between  hurried  readings  from 
her  mother's  Bible ;  the  one  true  companion  to  which  she 
had  often  clung,  always  half-availingly.  The  Bible  was 
found  by  hei-  side,  as  if  it  had  fallen  from  the  chair  before 
which  she  knelt  to  read  her  last  quickening  verses,  and  had 
fallen  with  her.  One  arm  was  about  it ;  one  grasped  the 
broken  phial  with  its  hideous  labfil. 

It  was  uncomplainingly  registered  among  the  few  facts 
very  distinctly  legible  in  Master  Gammon's  memory,  that  for 
three  entire  weeks  he  had  no  dumplings  for  dinner  at  the 
farm  ;  and  although,  upon  a  computation,  articles  of  that 
description,  amounting  probably  to  sixty-three  (if  there  is 
any  need  for  our  being  precise),  were  due  to  him,  and  would 
necessarily  be  for  evermore  due  to  him,  seeing  that  it  is  beyond 
all  human  and  even  spiritual  agency  to  make  good  unto  man 
the  dinner  he  has  lost.  Master  Gammon  uttered  no  word  to 
show  that  he  was  sensible  of  a  slight,  which  was  the  only 
indication  given  by  him  of  his  knowledge  of  a  calamity 
having  changed  the  order  of  things  at  the  farm.  On  tlie 
day  when  dumplings  reappeared,  he  remai-ked,  with  a  glance 
at  the  ceiling :  "  Goin'  on  better — eh,  marm  ?" 

"  Oh !  Mas'  Gammon,"  Mrs.  Sumfit  burst  out ;  "  if  I  was 
only  certain  you  said  your  prayers  faithful  every  night  !" 

The  observation  was  apparently  taken  by  Master  Gammo 
to  express  one  of  the  mere  emotions  within  her  bosom,  for  h 
did  not  reply  to  it. 

She  watched  him  feeding  in  his  steady  way,  with  the 
patient  bent  back,  and  slowly  chopping  old  grey  jaws,  and 
struck  by  a  pathos  in  the  sight,  exclaimed : 

"  We've  all  been  searched  so,  Mas'  Gammon !  I  feel  I 
know  everything  that's  in  me.  I'd  say,  I  couldn't  ha'  given 
you  dumpiin's  and  tears  ;  but  think  of  our  wickedness,  when 
I  confess  to  you  I  did  feel  spiteful  at  you  to  think  that  you 
were  willin  to  eat  the  dumpiin's  while  all  of  us  mourned 
and  rocked  as  in  a  quake,  expecting  the  worst  to  befall ; 
and  that  made  me  refuse  them  to  you.  It  was  cruel  of  me, 
and  well  may  you  shake  your  head.  If  I  was  only  sure  you 
said  your  prayers  !  " 

The  meaning  in  her  aroused  heart  was,  that  if  she  could 
be  sure  Master  Gammon  said  his  prayers,  so  as  to  be  searched 
all  through  by  them,  as  she  was  herself,  and  to  feel  thereby. 


392  KnODA  FLKMING. 

as  she  did,  that  he  knew  everything  that  ■was  within  him, 
she  wonhl  then,  in  admiration  of  his  profound  equanimity, 
aekno\vlf'(lL,''e  him  to  be  a  superior  Christian. 

Naturally  enough,  Master  Gammon  allowed  the  interjec- 
tion to  pass,  regarding  it  as  simply  a  vagr.ant  action  of  the 
engine  of  speech ;  while  Mrs.  Sumfit,  with  an  interjector's 
consciousness  of  prodigious  things  implied  which  were  not 
in  any  degree  comprehended,  left  his  presence  in  kindness, 
and  with  a  shade  less  of  the  sense  that  he  "was  a  superior 
Christian. 

Nevci'theless,  the  sight  of  Master  Gammon  was  like  a 
comfoi-ting  medicine  to  all  who  were  in  the  house.  He  was 
Mrs.  Sumfit's  clock  ;  he  was  balm  and  blessedness  in  Rhoda's 
eyes  ;  Anthony  was  jealous  of  him  ;  the  farmer  held  to  him 
as  to  a  stake  in  the  ground :  even  Robert,  who  rallied,  and 
tormented,  and  was  vexed  by  him,  admitted  that  he  stood 
some  way  between  an  example  and  a  warning,  and  was  a 
study.  The  grand  pi'imiBval  quality  of  unchangeableness  as 
exhibited  by  this  old  man  affected  them  singularly  in  their 
recovery  from  the  storm  and  the  wi-eck  of  the  hours  gone 
by  ;  so  much  so  that  they  could  not  divest  themselves  of  the 
idea  that  it  was  a  manifestation  of  power  in  Master  Gammon 
to  show  forth  undisturbed  while  they  were  feeling  their  life 
shaken  in  them  to  the  depths.  I  have  never  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  examining  the  idol- worshipping  mind  of  a  savage  ; 
but  it  seems  possible  that  the  immutability  of  aspect  of  his 
little  wooden  God  may  sometimes  touch  him  with  a  similar 
astounded  awe ; — even  when,  and  indeed  especially  after,  he 
has  thrashed  it.  Had  the  old  man  betrayed  his  mortality 
in  a  sign  of  curiosity  to  know  why  the  hubbub  of  trouble  had 
arisen,  and  who  was  to  blame,  and  what  was  the  story,  the 
effect  on  them  would  have  been  diminished.  He  really 
seem  >d  granite  among  the  turbulent  Avaves.  "  Give  me 
Gammon's  life!"  was  farmer  Fleming's  prayerful  interjec- 
tion ;  seeing  hira  come  and  go,  sit  at  his  meals,  and  sleej)  and 
wake  in  season,  all  through  those  tragic  hours  of  susi)eiise, 
without  a  question  to  anybody.  Once  or  twice,  when  his 
eye  fell  upon  the  doctor.  Master  Gammon  appeared  to  medi- 
tate. He  observed  that  the  doctor  had  never  been  called  in 
to  one  of  his  family,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  did  not 
understand  the  c()ni])lication  of  things  which  rendered  the 
doctor's  visit  necessary. 


DAWN  IS  NEAE.  393 

"  You'll  never  live  so  long  as  that  old  man,"  tlie  farmer 
said  to  Robert. 

"  Xo ;  but  when  he  goes,  all  of  him's  gone,"  Robert 
answered. 

"  But,  Gammon's  got  the  wisdom  to  keep  himself  safe, 
Robert ;  there's  no  one  to  blame  for  his  winnkles." 

"  Gammon's  a  sheepskin  old  Time  writes  his  nothings 
on,"  said  Robert.  "  He's  safe — safe  enough.  An  old  hiilk 
doesn't  very  easily  manage  to  founder  in  the  mud,  and  Gam- 
mon's been  lying  on  the  mud  all  his  life." 

"Let  that  be  how  't  -n-ill,"  returned  the  farmer;  "I've 
had  days  o'  mortal  envy  of  that  old  man." 

"  Well,  it's  whether  you  prefer  being  the  fiddle  or  the 
fiddle-case,"  quoth  Robert. 

Of  Anthony  the  farmer  no  longer  had  any  envy.  In  him, 
though  he  was  as  passive  as  Master  Gammon,  the  farmer 
beheld  merely  a  stupefied  old  man,  and  not  a  steady 
machine.  He  knew  that  some  queer  misfortune  had 
befallen  Anthony. 

"He'll  find  I'm  brotherly,"  said  Mr.  Fleming;  but 
Anthony  had  darkened  his  golden  horizon  for  him,  and  was 
no  longer  an  attractive  object  to  his  vision. 

Upon  an  Autumn  afternoon,  Dahlia,  looking  like  a  pale 
Spring  flower,  came  down  among  them.  She  told  her  sister 
that  it  was  her  wish  to  see  Edward.  Rhoda  had  lost  all 
power  of  will,  even  if  she  had  desired  to  keep  them  asunder. 
She  mentioned  Dahlia's  wish  to  her  father,  who  at  once 
went  for  his  hat,  and  said :  "  Dress  yourself  neat,  my  lass." 
She  knew  what  was  meant  by  that  remark.  Messages  daily 
had  been  coming  down  from  the  Hall,  but  the  rule  of  a 
discerning  lady  was  then  established  there,  and  Rhoda  had 
been  spared  a  visit  from  either  Edward  or  Algernon,  though 
she  knew  them  to  be  at  hand.  During  Dahlia's  con- 
valescence, the  farmer  had  not  spoken  to  Rhoda  of  her 
engagement  to  the  young  squire.  The  great  misery  inter- 
vening, seemed  in  her  mind  to  have  cancelled  all  earthly 
engagements  ;  and  when  he  said  that  she  must  use  care  in 
her  attire  he  suddenly  revived  a  dread  within  her  bosom,  as 
if  he  had  plucked  her  to  the  verge  of  a  chasm. 

But  Mrs.  Lovell's  delicacy  was  still  manifest :  Edward 
came  alone,  and  he  and  Dahlia  were  left  apart. 

There  was  no  need  to  ask  for  pardon  fi-om  those  gentle 


S94  EnODA  PLEMFNO. 

eyes.  They  joined  liandg.  Slie  was  -wasted  and  very  wealc, 
bnt  she  did  not  tremble.  Passion  was  extinf);uished.  He 
refrained  fi-om  speakinc^  of  their  union,  ffolin^  sure  tliat 
they  were  united.  It  required  that  he  should  see  her  to 
know  fully  the  sinner  he  had  been.  Wasted  though  she 
was,  he  was  ready  to  make  her  his  own,  if  only  for  tlio  salco 
of  making  amends  to  this  dear  fair  soul,  Avhoso  picture  of 
Saint  was  impressed  on  him,  first  as  a  response  to  the  world 
■wondering  at  his  sacrifice  of  himself,  and  next,  by  degrees, 
as  an  absolute  visible  fleshly  fact.  She  had  come  out  of 
her  martyrdom  stamped  with  the  heavenly  sign-mark. 

"  Those  are  the  old  trees  I  used  to  speak  of,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  the  two  pines  in  tlie  miller's  grounds.  "They 
always  look  like  Adam  and  Eve  turning  away." 

"  They  do  not  make  you  unhappy  to  see  them.  Dahlia  ?" 
"  I  hope  to  see  them  till  I  am  gone." 

Edward  pressed  her  fingers.  He  thought  that  warmer 
hopes  would  soon  flow  into  her. 

"  The  neighbours  are  kind  ?"  he  asked. 
*'  Very  kind.     They  inquire  after  me  daily." 
His  cheeks  reddened ;  he  had  spoken  at  random,  and  he 
wondered   that   Dahlia   should   feel    it    pleasurable   to    be 
inquired  after,  she  who  was  so  sensitive. 

"  The  clergyman  sits  with  me  every  day,  and  knows  mj 
heart,"  she  added. 

"  The  clergyman  is  a  comfort  to  women,"  said  Edward. 
Dahlia  looked  at  him  gently.  The  round  of  her  thin  eye- 
lids dwelt  on  him.  She  wished.  She  dared  not  speak  her 
wish  to  one  whose  remembered  mastery  in  words  forbade 
her  poor  speechlessness.  But  God  would  hear  her  prayers 
for  him. 

Edward  begged  that  he  might  come  to  her  often,  and  she 

said, — 

"  Come."     He  misinterpreted  the  readiness  of   the  mvita- 

When  he  had  left  her,  he  reflected  on  the  absence  of  all 
endearing  ejiithets  in  her  speech,  and  missed  them.  Having 
himself  sufiered,  he  required  thera.  For  what  had  sho 
wrestled  so  sharply  with  death,  if  not  to  fall  upon  his  bosom 
and  be  his  in  a  great  outpouring  of  gladness  ?  In  fact  he 
craved  the  immediate  reward  for  his  public  acknowledge- 
ment of  his  misdeeds.     He  walked  in  this  neighbourhood 


CONCLUSIOTT.  395 

known  by  what  lie  had  done,  and  his  desire  was  to  tate  his 
wife  away,  never  more  to  be  seen  there.  Following  so  deep 
a  darkness,  he  wanted  at  least  a  cheerful  dawn :  not  one  of 
a  penitential  grey — not  a  hooded  dawn,  as  if  the  paths  of 
life  were  to  be  under  cloistral  arches.  And  he  wanted  a 
rose  of  womanhood  in  his  hand  like  that  he  had  parted  with, 
and  to  recover  which  he  had  endured  every  earthly  mor- 
tification, even  to  absolute  abasement.  The  frail  bent  lily 
seemed  a  stranger  to  him. 

Can  a  man  go  farther  than  his  nature  ?  I^ever,  when  he 
takes  passion  on  board.  By  other  means  his  nature  may  be 
enlarged  and  nerved,  but  passion  will  find  his  weakness,  and, 
while  urging  him  on,  will  constantly  betray  him  at  that 
point.  Edward  had  three  inteiviaws  with  Dahlia;  he  wrote 
to  her  as  many  times.  There  a\  a  s  but  one  answer  for  him  ; 
and  when  he  ceased  to  charge  her  with  unforgivingness,  he 
came  to  the  strange  conclusion  that  beyond  our  calling  of  a 
woman  a  Saint  for  rhetorical  purposes,  and  esteeming  her  as 
one  for  pictorial,  it  is  indeed  possible,  as  he  had  slightly 
discerned  in  this  woman's  presence,  both  to  think  her  saintly 
and  to  have  the  sentiments  inspired  by  the  overearthly  in 
her  person.  Her  voice,  her  simple  words  of  writing,  her 
gentle  resolve,  all  issuing  of  a  capacity  to  suffer  evil,  and 
pardon  it,  conveyed  that  character  to  a  mind  not  soft  for 
receiving  such  impressions. 


CHAPTER  XL  Villi. 


COIfCLUSION. 


Major  Waking  came  to  Wrexby  Hall  at  the  close  of  the 
October  month.  He  came  to  plead  his  own  cause  with  Mrs. 
Lovell ;  but  she  stopped  him  by  telling  him  that  his  friend 
Robert  was  in  some  danger  of  losing  his  love. 

"  She  is  a  woman,  Percy ;  I  anticipate  your  observation. 
But,  more  than  that,  she  believes  she  is  obliged  to  give  her 
hand  to  my  cousin,  the  squire.  It's  an  intricate  story  relating 
to  money.  She  does  not  care  for  Algy  a  bit,  which  is  not  a 
matter  that  greatly  influences  him.  He  has  served  her  in 
some  mysterious  way ;    by  relieving  an  old  imcle  of  hers. 


396  EHODA  FLEMIXO. 

A\gj  has  got  him  the  ofFice  of  villnge  postman  for  this  district, 
I  belie v^e ;  if  it's  that;  but  I  think  it  sliould  be  more,  to 
•justify  her.  At  all  events,  she  seems  to  consider  that  her 
hnnd  is  pledp^ed.  You  know  the  kind  of  girl  your  friend 
fancies.  Besides,  her  father  insists  she  is  to  marry  '  the 
S(|uire,'  -which  is  certainly  the  most  natural  thing  of  all.  So, 
don't  you  think,  dear  Percy,  you  had  better  take  your  friend 
on  the  Continent  for  some  weeks  ?  I  never,  I  confess,  exactly 
understood  the  intimacy  existing  between  you,  but  it  must 
be  sincere." 

"  Are  you  ?"  said  Percy. 

"  Yes,  perfectly  ;  but  always  in  a  roundabout  way.     Wliy 
do  you  ask  me  in  this  instance  ?" 

"  Because  you  could  stop  this  silly  business  in  a  day." 
•'  I  know  I  could." 
"  Then,  why  do  you  not  ?" 

"  Because  of  a  wish  to  be  sincere.  Percy,  I  have  been  that 
throughout,  if  you  could  read  me.  I  tried  to  deliver  my 
cousin  Edward  from  what  I  thought  was  a  wretched  entangle- 
ment. His  selfish  falseness  offended  mo,  and  I  let  him  know 
that  I  despised  him.  When  I  found  that  he  was  a  man  who 
had  coarage,  and  some  heart,  he  gained  my  friendship  once 
more,  and  I  served  him  as  far  as  I  could — happily,  as  it 
chanced.  I  tell  you  all  this,  because  I  don't  care  to  forfeit 
your  esteem,  and  heaven  knows,  I  may  want  it  in  the  days  to 
come.  I  believe  I  am  the  best  friend  in  the  world — and  bad 
anything  else.  No  one  perfectly  pleases  me,  not  even  you  : 
you  are  too  studious  of  character,  and,  like  myself,  exacting 
of  perfection  in  one  or  two  points.  But  now  hear  what  I 
have  done,  and  a])prove  it  if  you  think  fit.  I  have  flirted — 
abominable  word ! — I  am  compelled  to  use  the  language  of 
the  Misses — yes,  I  have  flirted  with  my  cousin  Algy.  I  do 
it  too  well,  I  know — by  nature !  and  I  hate  it.  He  has 
this  morning  sent  a  letter  down  to  the  fai-m  saying,  tliat,  as 
he  believes  he  has  failed  in  securing  Rhoda's  affections,  he 
renounces  all  pretensions,  &c.,  subject  to  her  wishes,  etc. 
The  coui-ting,  I  imagine,  can  scarcely  have  been  pleasant  to 
him.  My  deliglitful  manner  with  him  during  the  last  fort- 
night has  been  infinitely  pleasanter.  So,  your  friend  Ilobert 
rrt/jij  be  made  happy  by-and-by ;  that  is  to  say,  if  his  Ilhoda 
IS  not  too  like  her  sex." 

"  You're  an  enchantress,"  exclaimed  Percy. 


CONCLUSION.  397 

"  Stop,"  said  she,  and  drifted  into  serionsncss.  "  Before 
jon  praise  me  you  must  know  more.  Percy,  that  duel  in 
India " 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"  Tes,  I  forgive,"  she  resumed.  "  You  were  cruel  then. 
Remember  that,  and  try  to  be  just  now.  The  poor  boy 
would  go  to  his  doom.  I  could  have  arrested  it.  I  partly 
caused  it.  I  thought  the  honour  of  the  army  at  stake.  I 
was  to  blame  on  that  day,  and  1  am  to  blame  again,  but  I 
feel  that  I  am  almost  excusable,  if  j'ou  are  not  too  harsh  a 
judge.     No,  I  am  not;  I  am  execrable  ;  but  forgive  me." 

Percy's  face  lighted  up  in  horrified  amazement  as  Margaret 
Lovell  unfastened  the  brooch  at  her  neck  and  took  out  the 
dull-red  handkerchief. 

"  It  was  the  bond  between  us,"  she  pursued,  "  that  I  was 
to  return  this  to  you  when  I  no  longer  remained  my  own 
mistress.  Count  me  a  miserably  heartless  woman.  I  do  my 
best.  Tou  brought  this  handkerchief  to  me  dipped  in  the 
blood  of  the  poor  boy  who  was  slain.  I  have  worn  it.  It 
was  a  safeguard.  Did  you  mean  it  to  serve  as  such  ?  Oh, 
Percy  !  1  felt  continually  that  blood  was  on  my  bosom.  I 
felt  it  fighting  with  me.  It  has  saved  me  from  much.  And 
now  I  return  it  to  you." 

He  could  barely  articulate  "  Why  ?" 

"  Dear  friend,  by  the  reading  of  the  bond  you  should 
know.  I  asked  you  when  I  was  leaving  India,  how  long 
I  was  to  keep  it  by  me.  You  said,  '  Till  you  marry.'  Do 
not  be  vehement,  Percy.  This  is  a  thing  that  could  not 
have  been  averted." 

"  Is  it  possible,"  Percy  cried,  "  that  you  carried  the  play 
out  so  far  as  to  promise  him  to  marry  him  ?" 

'*  Your  forehead  is  thunder,  Percy.     I  know  that  look." 

"  Margaret,  I  think  1  could  bear  to  see  our  army  suffer 
another  defeat  rather  than  you  should  be  contemptible." 

"  Your  chastisement  is  not  given  in  half  measures,  Percy." 

"  Speak  on,"  said  he  ;  "  there  is  more  to  come.  Yoa  are 
engaged  to  marry  him  ?" 

"  I  engaged  that  I  would  take  the  name  of  Blancove." 

"If  he  would  cease  to  persecute  Rhoda  Fleming !" 

**  The  stipulation  was  exactly  in  those  words." 

"  You  mean  to  carry  it  out  ?" 

"  To  be  sincere  ?     I  do,  Percy." 


398  EnoDA  FLEMma. 

*'  You  mean  to  marry  Al!:;crnon  Blancove  ?" 

*'  I  should  be  contemptible  indeed  if  1  did,  Percy.'* 

«  You  do  not  ?" 

«♦  I  do  not." 

"  And  you  are  sincere  ?  By  all  the  powers  of  earth  and 
Leaven,  there's  no  madness  like  dealing  with  an  animated 
enigma  !     What  is  it  you  do  mean  ?" 

"  As  I  said — to  be  sincere.  But  I  was  also  bound  to  be  of 
service  to  your  friend.     It  is  easy  to  be  sincere  and  passive." 

Percy  struck  his  brows.  "  Can  you  mean  that  Edward 
Blancove  is  the  man  ?" 

"  Oh  !  no.  Edward  will  never  marry  any  one.  I  do  him 
the  justice  to  say  that  his  vice  is  nor,  that  of  unfaithfulness. 
He  had  but  one  love,  and  her  heart  is  quite  dead.  There  is 
DO  marriage  for  him — she  refuses.  You  may  not  understand 
the  why  of  that,  but  women  will.  She  would  maj-ry  him  if 
she  could  bring  herself  to  it  ; — the  truth  is,  he  killed  her 
pride.  Her  taste  for  life  has  gone.  She  is  bent  on  her 
sister's  marrying  your  fiiend.  She  has  no  other  thought  of 
marriage,  and  never  will  have.  I  know  the  state.  It  is  not 
much  unlike  mine." 

Waring  fixed  her  eyes.     "  There  is  a  man  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  bluntl3\ 

*'  It  is  somebody,  then,  whose  banker's  account  is,  I  hope, 
satisfactory." 

"Yes,  Percy;"  she  looked  eagerly  forward,  as  thanking 
him  for  releasing  her  from  a  difficulty.  "  You  still  can  use 
the  whip,  but  I  do  not  feel  the  sting.  I  marry  a  banker's 
account.  Do  you  bear  in  mind  the  day  I  sent  after  you  in 
the  Park  ?  I  had  just  heard  that  I  was  ruined.  You  know 
my  mania  for  betting.  I  heard  it,  and  knew  when  I  let  my 
heai-t  warm  to  you  that  I  could  never  marry  you.  That  is 
one  reason,  perhaps,  why  I  have  been  an  enigma.  I  am 
sincere  in  telling  Algy  I  shall  take  the  name  of  Blancove.  I 
marry  the  banker.     Now  take  this  old  gift  of  yours." 

Percy  grasped  the  handkerchief,  and  quitted  her  presence 
forthwith,  feeling  that  he  had  swallowed  a  dose  of  the  sex 
to  serve  him  for  a  lifetime.  Yet  he  lived  to  reflect  on  her 
having  decided  practically,  perhaps  wisely  for  all  parties. 
Her  debts  expunged,  she  became  an  old  gentleman's  demure 
young  wife,  a  sweet  hostess,  and,  as  ever,  a  true  friend : 
something  of  a  miracle  to  one  who  had  inclined  to  make  a 


CONCLUSION.  399 

heroine  of  her  while  imagining  himself  to  accurately  estimate 
her  deficiencies.  Honourably  by  this  marriage  the  lady 
paid  for  such  wild  oats  as  she  had  sown  in  youth. 

There  were  joy-bells  for  Robert  and  Rhoda,  but  none  for 
Dahlia  and  Edward. 

Dahlia  lived  seven  years  her  sister's  housemate,  nurse  of 
the  growing  swarm.  She  had  gone  through  fire,  as  few 
women  have  done  in  like  manner,  to  leave  their  hearts  among 
the  ashes ;  but  with  that  human  heart  she  left  regrets 
behind  her.  The  soul  of  this  young  creature  filled  its  place. 
It  shone  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  work,  a  lamp  to  her  little 
neighbourhood ;  and  not  less  a  lamp  of  cheerful  beams  for 
one  day  being  as  another  to  her.  In  truth,  she  sat  above 
the  clouds.  When  she  died  she  relinquished  nothing.  Others 
knew  the  loss.  Between  her  and  Robert  there  was  deeper 
community  on  one  subject  than  she  let  Rhoda  share.  Almost 
her  last  words  to  him,  spoken  calmly,  but  with  the  quaver 
of  breath  resembling  sobs,  were  :  "  Help  poor  girls." 


THE   £KD. 


BALZAC  IN  ENGLISH. 


An  Historical  Mystery. 

Translated  by  KATHARINE  PRESCOTT  WORMELEY. 
12mo.    Half  Russia.    TJnifonn  with  Balzac's  Works.    Price,  $1.50. 


Alt  Historical  Mystery  \s  the  title  given  to  "  Une  Tenebreuse  Affaire,"  which 
has  just  appeared  in  the  series  of  translations  of  Honore  de  Balzac's  novels,  by 
Katharine  Prescott  Worineley  This  exciting  romance  is  full  of  stirring  interest, 
and  IS  distinguished  by  that  minute  analysis  of  character  m  which  its  etninent 
author  excelled  'I'he  characters  stand  boldly  out  from  the  surrounding  incidents, 
and  with  a  fidelity  as  wonderful  as  it  is  truthful.  Plot  and  counterplot  follow 
each  other  with  marvellous  rapidity;  and  around  the  exciting  days  when  Na- 
poleon was  First  Consul,  and  afterward  when  he  was  Emperor,  a  mystery  is 
woven  in  which  some  royalists  are  concerned  that  is  concealed  with  masterly 
ingenuity  until  the  novelist  sees  fit  to  taUe  his  reader  into  his  confidence.  The 
heroine,  Laurence,  is  a  remarkably  strong  character;  and  the  love-story  in  which 
she  figures  is  refreshing  in  its  departure  from  the  beaten  path  of  the  ordinary 
writer  of  fiction  Rlichu,  her  devoted  servant,,  has  also  a  marked  individuality, 
which  leaves  a  lasting  impression.  Napoleon,  Talleyrand,  Fouche,  and  other 
historical  personages,  appear  in  the  tale  in  a  manner  that  is  at  once  natural  and 
impressive.  .As  an  addition  to  a  remarkable  series,  the  book  is  one  that  no 
admirer  of  Balzac  can  afford  to  neglect.  Miss  Wormeley's  translation  reproduces 
the  peculiarities  of  the  author's  style  with  the  faithfulness  for  which  she  has 
hitherto  been  celebrated.  —  Saturday   Evening  Gazette. 

It  makes  very  interesting  reading  at  this  distance  of  tune,  however;  and  Balzac 
has  given  to  the  legendary  account  much  of  the  solidity  of  history  by  his  adroit 
manipulation.  For  the  main  story  it  must  be  said  that  tlie  action  is  swifter  and 
more  varied  than  m  many  of  the  author's  books,  and  that  there  are  not  wanting 
many  of  those  cameo-like  portraits  necessary  to  warn  the  reader  against  slovenly 
perusal  of  this  carefully  written  story ;  for  the  complications  are  such,  and  the  re- 
lations between  the  several  plots  involved  so  intricate,  that  the  thread  might 
easily  be  lost  and  much  of  the  interest  be  thus  destroyed  The  usual  Balzac 
compactness  is  of  course  present  throughout,  to  give  body  and  significance  to  the 
work,  and  the  stage  is  crowded  with  impressive  figures.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  find  a  book  which  gives  a  better  or  more  faithful  illustration  of  one  of  the 
strangest  periods  in  French  history,  in  short  ;  and  its  attraction  as  a  story  is  at 
least  equalled  by  its  value  as  a  true  picture  of  the  tune  it  is  concerned  with.  The 
translation  is  as  spirited  and  close  as  IMiss  Wormeley  has  taught  us  to  expect  in 
this  admirable  series.  —New  York  Tribune. 

One  of  the  most  intensely  interesting  novels  that  Balzac  ever  wrote  is  An 
Historical  Mystery,  whose  translation  has  just  been  added  to  the  preceding 
novels  that  compose  the  "  Comedie  Humaine  "  so  admirably  translated  by  Miss 
Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley.  The  story  opens  in  the  autumn  of  1803,  in  the 
time  of  the  Empire,  and  the  motive  is  in  deep-laid  political  plots,  which  are  re- 
vealed with  the  subtle  and  ingenious  skill  that  marks  the  art  of  Balzac.  .  .  The 
story  is  a  deep-laid  political  conspiracy  of  the  secret  service  of  the  ministry  of 
the  police.  Talleyrand,  M'lle  de  Cmq-Cvgne,  the  Princess  de  Cadigan,  Louis 
XVIII.,  as  well  as  Napoleon,  figure  as  characters  of  this  thrilling  historic  ro- 
mance. An  absorbing  love-story  is  also  told,  in  vkhich  State  intrigue  plays  an 
important  part.  The  character-drawing  is  faithful  to  history,  and  the  story  illu- 
minates French  life  in  the  early  years  of  the  century  as  if  a  calcium  light  were 
thrown  on  the  scene. 

It  IS  a  romance  of  remarkable  power,  and  one  of  the  most  deeply  fascinating 
of  all  the  novels  of  the  '"  Comedie  Humaine." 


Sold  by  all  booksellers.     Mailed,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of 
price  by  the  Publishers. 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,    Boston. 


From  The  Art  Interchange,  a  Household  Jour- 
nal,  of  February  13,    1SS6. 

THE  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS. 

WITH 

An  Episode  under  the  Terror,  The  Illustrious 
Gaudissart,  a  Passion  in  the  Desert,  and 
A  Hidden  Masterpiece. 

By  HONORS    DE    BALZAC. 

Since  the  days  when-  Thackeray  and  Dickens  were  'issuing  in  numbers 
those  novels  which  have  dehghted  so  many  readers,  or  George  Eliot's  pub- 
lishers were  able  to  announce  a  new  novel  from  her  pen,  tliere  has  been  no 
series  of  novels  given  to  the  public  so  notable  and  so  well  worthy  of  wide 
attention  on  tlie  part  of  adult  readers  as  this  translation  of  Balzac  from  the 
press  of  Roberts  Brothers.  If  it  be  objected,  as  it  perhaps  will  be,  that  there 
is  a  flavor  of  immorality  in  Balzac,  and  that  his  works  are  not  well  adapted 
to  general  reading,  it  can  be  shown,  we  thmk,  at  least  so  far  as  the  charge 
of  immorality  is  concerned,  that  the  objection  is  a  superficial  one ;  and  that 
while  there  is  much  in  the  times  and  society  which  form  the  ground-work 
of  Balzac's  marvellous  stories  that  is  improper  and  fortunately  counter  to 
our  civilization,  still,  Balzac's  tone  concerning  these  very  things  is  a  healthy 
one,  and  his  belief  in  purity  and  goodness,  his  faith  in  the  possibilities  of 
humanity,  is  too  clear  to  admit  of  a  question.  He  gives  us  wonderful  pic- 
tures of  the  world  he  lived  in.  It  was  not  altogether  a  good  world.  As  it 
was  he  portrays  it.  Its  virtues  he  praises  and  its  vir.es  he  condemns,  not 
by  a  page  of  mere  moralizing,  but  by  events  and  action,  which,  swaying  the 
ithics  of  society  with  apparent  uncertainty  hither  and  thither,  yet  have  an 
upward  tread,  even  as  they  do  in  our  world  of  to-day.  "  The  Duchesse  de 
Langeais  "  is  the  novel  of  this  volume.  It  is  from  the  Scenes  de  la  \'ie 
Farisienne  of  the  Comddie  Humaine.  The  temptation  and  struggle  of  the 
Duchess  is  one  which  could  hardly,  in  our  day,  present  itself  to  a  pure- 
minded  woman.  In  that  day  and  time  it  could,  and  did;  in  spite  of  her 
wild  abandcinmont  to  the  lover  who  spurned  her,  the  reader  feels  that 
Madamo  de  Langeais  was  a  nr>ble-iKarted  woman,  purer  than  those  who 


counselled  her  a  concealed  enjoyment  of  her  passion,  nobler  and  better  than 
the  society  which  made  her  what  she  w;is.  With  great  power  and  pathos  is 
her  story  told.  It  is  a  very  powe'ful  scene  when  her  lover  meets  her  in  the 
convent,  and  very  dramatic  is  her  tortured  cry  to  the  Mother  Superior: 
**  This  man  is  my  lover !  "  How  strong  and  pitiful  the  end,  and  the  sad 
commitment  to  thje  waves  of  what  was  a  woman  and  now  is  nothing !  The 
volume  also  contains  four  short  stories.  "  An  Episode  under  the  Terror," 
from  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Politique,  is  a  story  already  familiar  from  previous 
translation,  and  which  has  drifted  around  in  English  as  much  perhaps  as 
any  of  Balzac's  shorter  stories.  "  The  Illustrious  Gaudissart  "  is  from 
Scenes  de  la  Vie  de  Province,  an  admirable  example  of  Balzac's  humor. 
Gaudissart  is  a  commercial  traveller,  —  a  drummer,  in  familiar  parlance.  He 
might  be  a  drummer  of  to-day.  If  he  were,  he  could  easily  find  employ- 
ment with  a  high-class  house.  The  shrewdness  and  impudence  of  the  class 
has  not  varied  much  since  Balzac's  time.  Gaudissart  adds  to  his  line  a 
children's  magazine  and  the  agency  of  a  Life  Insurance  Company.  He  is 
advised  by  the  humorist  of  a  provincial  town  to  try  his  powers  of  persua- 
sion on  a  man  who  turns  out  to  be  a  harmless,  but  decided  lunatic.  The 
scene  between  the  two  is  humorous  in  the  extreme.  When  Gaudissart  calls 
the  insuring  one's  life  for  a  large  sum  "  the  discounting  of  future  genius," 
he  adds  a  persuasive  phrase  to  the  repertoire  of  the  life-insurance  agent. 
•'A  Passion  in  the  Desert"  is  from  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Militaire,  and  is  as 
singular  a  tale  as  might  be  imagined  from  the  affection  of  a  man  and  a 
tiger.  The  last  of  the  four  is  "  The  Hidden  Masterpiece,"  from  Etudes 
Philosophiques.  Here,  to  the  readers  of  this  edition,  Balzac  is  seen  in  a 
new  vein.  Here  is  something  of  the  strange,  weird  touch  of  Hawthorne, 
something  of  unreality,  and  tlie  lingering  vision  of  a  possible  moral.  The 
translation  could  hardly  be  in  better  hands.  The  English  is  delightfully 
clear  and  nervous.  Whoever  reads  these  books  will  know  Balzac  very  weii, 
and  it  is  safe  to  assume  that  they  will  like  him  very  much. 


One  handso7fte  \iino  volu7ne,  uniform  with  "Pere  Goriot 
and  "  Cesar  BirotteauP   Bound  in  half  morocco,  French 
style-     Price  $1.50. 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

Boston. 


BALZAC     IN     ENGLISH. 


THE    COUNTRY  DOCTOR. 


That  exceedingly  rare  tliinR,  —  a  French  novel  pos<;essing  all  the  virile  nervous- 
02S.S  ot  its  kind  and  yet  wholesome  to  the  cor.:,  e  evaiinj;  in  its  tendency,  and  fr.» 
even  from  the  slii;luest  moral  taint  or  uncleanness,  — we  have  ii  in  Hal/ac's  '  Coun- 
try Doctor.'  It  is,  if  we  mistake  not,  the  tillli  of  the  series  of  IJalzac  tianslations 
which  the  well-known  Boston  firm  had  the  enterprise  and  the  pood  fortune  io 
publish.  For  though  somewhat  darin'.;  at  first  as  an  exjierinient,  there  is  now 
iio  doubt  that  as  the  publishers  sensibly  enriclied  English  literature  by  those  ex- 
quisite translations  of  an  author  all  too  long  neglected  and  overlooked  by  Knglish- 
speaking  people,  so  the  venture  has  also  proved  a  profitable  one  for  them  in  a 
monetary  sense.  And  here  it  must  be  said  that  if  regret  at  anvthing  in  this  book 
has  to  be  expressed  it  is  because  of  the  continued  omission  ol'  the  name  of  the 
translator.  In  that  respect  the  book  is  almost  a  marvel.  'Ihis  translation  can  no 
more  be  compared  to  the  usual  slapdash  work  glutting  the  market,  made  by  per- 
sons lacking  almost  every  requisite  necessary  for  the  task,  than  Balzac  himself  can 
be  compared  to  the  salacious,  hollow-brained  scamps  who  in  English  minds  figure 
exclusively  as  French  novelists.  The  translation  is,  in  fact,  exquisite  .  .  . 
The  person  who  did  the  translation  combines  these  two  rare  qualifications, —a 
thorough  knowledge  of  French  and  a  perfect  mastery  over  English." —AVw  York 
Graphic. 

'■  I'he  many-sidedness  of  Balzac's  genius  is  strikingly  exhibited  in  '  Le  Medicin 
de  Campagne.'  It  demonstrates  also  the  injustice  ol  much  of  the  criticism  di- 
rected against  this  great  writer  by  Sainte-Heuve  and  others  who  have  followed 
his  hues  of  interpretation.  It  is  significant  that  this  book  was  one  of  Balzac's 
favorites.  It  is  significant  because  the  work  is  characterized  by  none  of  the 
qualities  which  it  has  been  customary  to  attribute  to  his  fiction,  and  wiiich  do,  iu 
fact,  appear  in  much  of  it.  The  '  Country  Doctor  '  is  i.ot  a  novel  in  the  ordinary 
se.ise  ot  the  term.  It  is  rather  a  prose  poem,  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful,  capti- 
vating, and  ennobling  in  any  literature.  Balzac  himself  said  ot  it  that  it  was  a  pic- 
ture of  '  the  Gospel  in  action,'  and  the  definition  is  keen  and  succinct.  It  is  indeed 
a  story  ofthe  noblest  and  most  practical  philaiuhropv,  soenriched  by  philosophy,  so 
bro.;>dened  by  profound  economic  analvsis,  so  full  of  deep  suggestion  and  piercing 
criticism  of  social  problems  that  it  might  constitute  a  statesman's  text-boirk,  and 
convey  useful  ideas  to  the  most  experienced  administrators.  .  .  .  The  devotion  of 
the  countr>;  doctor  to  the  community  whose  interests  he  had  taken  in  charge  is  in- 
deed touching  and  beautiful,  but  such  instances  .are  not  wholly  unfamiliar.  Wh.-i/ 
gives  this  story  its  charm  and  distinction  is  the  art  of  the  writer  in  developing 
before  us,  by  the  simplest  and  least  obtrusive  means,  one  of  tho.se  really  m.ajestic 
ch.traclers  whose  lives  men  follow  with  never-failing  interest,  and  whose  biogra- 
phies constitute  the  most  fascinating  literature,  since  they  illustrate  and  stimulate 
the  higher  potentialities  latent  in  every  human  breast.  ...  It  only  remains  to  be 
said  that  Miss  Wormeley  has  translated  the  book  excellently,  and  has  preserved 
as  ne.irly  as  possible  every  shade  of  the  author's  meaning.  The  enterprise  of  the 
publishers  m  undertaking  to  English  Balzac  is  certainlv  commendable,  but  it 
could  not  have  succeeded  as  it  has  but  for  the  good  fortune  which  sent  them  so 
capable  and  sympathetic  a  translator."— iV^iK  York  I'ributie. 


One  haudsome  \2mo  voluiiw,  uniform  with  "  Phe  Goriof" 
"  Duchesse  de  Langeais,"  "  Cesar  BiroUeaii,"  "  Eughiie  Grande/," 
and  "  Cousin  Pons."  Bound  in  half  morocco,  Frouh  style. 
Price,  $1.50. 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS.  Publishers,  Boston. 


BALZAC    IN    ENaLISH. 


THE  TWO  BROTHERS. 


"  It  is  quite  possible  that  many  French  students  may  be  somewhat  puzzled  to 
encounter  that  btor^'  of  BaUac's  which  they  have  always  known  under  the  title  of 
'  Un  Menage  de  Gargon,  in  the  strange  and  unfamiliar  appellation  'The  Two 
Brothers.'  The  explanation  is  simple  enough,  and  it  is  interesting  as  illustrating 
o?i  of  Balzac's  peculiarities.  A  number  of  his  hooks  underwent  many  changes 
before  they  crystallized  permanently  in  the  edition  definitive.  Some  of  them  were 
begun  in  a  newspaper  or  review,  carried  along  some  distance  in  that  way,  then 
dropped,  to  appear  presently  enlarged,  altered,  'grown,'  as  is  said  of  children, 
'out  of  knowledge.'  The  '  History  of  Balzac's  Works,'  by  Charles  de  Lovenjonl, 
gives  all  the  details  of  these  bewildering  metamorphoses.  The  first  title  of  the 
present  story  was  that  which  the  American  translator  has  selected,  namely,  '  Les 
deux  Freres.'  The  first  part  of  it  appeared  in  La  Presse  in  1841  with  this  desig- 
nation, and  in  1843  it  was  published  in  two  volumes  without  change  of  title.  The 
second  part  (now  incorporated  with  the  first)  appeared  in  La  Presse  m  1S42,  under 
the  title  '  Un  Menage  de  Garcon  en  Province,'  and  figured  as  the  continuation  of 
'  The  Two  Brothers  '  In  1S43  the  two  parts  were  brought  together,  and  the 
whole  published  as  '  Un  Menage  de  Garcon  en  Province.'  Balzac,  however,  was 
Dot  yet  satisfied.  Having  announced  yet  another  title,  namely,  '  Le  Bonhomme 
Rouget,'  he  abandoned  that,  cancelled  both  the  former  ones,  and  called  the  tale, 
in  the  definitive  edition  of  his  works,  '  La  Rabouilleuse.'  after  Flore  Brazier,  one 
of  the  characters  in  it.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Miss  Wormeley  has  chosen 
the  most  apposite  of  all  these  titles.  The  real  subject  is  the  career  of  the  two 
brothers,  Philippe  and  Joseph  Bridau  "  —  New  York  Tribime- 

"  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  of  Boston  have  added  to  the  excellent  translations 
they  have  already  published  of  several  of  Balzac's  most  famous  nove's  a  translation 
of  '  The  Two  Brothers,'  which  forms  a  sequence  in  '  Scenes  from  Provincial  Life.' 
As  with  the  other  novels  that  have  preceded  it,  nothing  but  the  highest  praise  can 
be  awarded  the  work  of  the  translator.  It  gives  to  the  reader  of  English  a  remark- 
able rendering  of  Balzac's  nervous,  idiomatic  French  ;  and  it  presents  the  novel 
reader  a  novel  that  must  challenge  his  comparisons  with  the  popular  novels  of  th* 
times.  One  cannot  read  far  in  Balzac's  pages  without  feeling  refreshed  by  contac| 
with  a  vigorous  intellect.  In  this  story  he  attempted  to  display  two  opposite  types 
of  character  in  brothers,  which  had  been  inherited  by  them  from  different  ances- 
tors. In  order  to  do  this  effectively  he  introduces  in  a  few  opening  pages  thessi 
ancestors,  before  coming  to  the  real  action  of  the  story.  .  .  .  There  is  no  plot,  nt 
intrigue,  no  aim  whatever  except  to  depict  the  characters  of  Joseph,  Philippe,  thi 
mother,  and  the  immediate  friends  about  them.  All  this  is  done,  however,  with 
such  vivid  reality  that  it  fascinates  the  attention.  It  is  like  watching  an  artist  de 
velop  with  telling  colors  a  great  breathing,  living  picture.  It  is,  in  ics  way,  a  studi 
of  evolution.  '  Perhaps  I  have  never  drawn  a  picture,'  said  Balzac,  in  reference 
to  the  book,  '  that  shows  more  plainly  how  essential  to  European  society  is  the 
indissoluble  marriage  bond,  how  fatal  the  results  of  feminine  weakness,  how  great 
the  dangers  arising  from  selfish  interests  when  indulged  without  restraint.'  There 
are  many  Philippes  in  the  world  outside  of  France;  the  shrewd,  selfish,  swagger- 
ing Philippes  who  march  through  life  rough-shod,  regardless  of  kindred,  friends, 
or  foes.  Here  is  the  man  painted  to  the  life  for  all  time,  and  any  country.  Here 
also  is  the  woman,  with  all  her  simplicity  and  weakness,  who  always  and  ever  fails 
to  gauge  rightly  this  sort  of  man  ;  who  is  doomed  to  be  his  slave  and  victim. 
Balzac  met  them  in  his  Parisian  world  forty  years  ago,  and  here  they  take  their 
places  in  his  comedy  of  human  life.  While  there  are  such  strong  portraitures  in 
literature  as  these  novels,  it  is  not  easy  to  understand  how  so  many  weak,  flnnsy, 
pretentious  ones  find  any  readers  at  all.  Let  us  have  Balzac  in  excellent  transla- 
tion by  all  means,  — all  that  remarkable  series  that  are  still  quite  as  good  as  nevf 
to  the  great  majority  of  the  English-speaking  people."  —  Brooklyn  Citizen. 


One  hanilsome  i2mo  volume,  u7iiform  with  '^  Pire  Goriot^^  "  The 
Duchesse  de Lang'eais,^''  "Cesar  Biroiteazij"  ^^Eugenie  Grandet,"  "Cousin 
Pons,''''  and  "  The  Country  Doctor,''''  Half  morocco.  French  style. 
Price,  ^t.50. 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS.  Publishers.  Bo.stcn 


BALZAC     IN     BNGLISH 


EUGENIE    GRANDET. 

A   GKEAT    NOVKL. 

*'  Honor^  de  R:\Izac  wrote  many  books  to  eacli  of  which  this  title  may  justly 
be  applied.  We  apply  it  in  the  present  instance  to  '  Eugenie  Grandet,'  one  o( 
his  very  greatest  works,  —  one  which,  in  the  opinion  of  a  large  number  of  persons, 
divides  witli  '  Le  Ptre  Cioriot '  the  lionor  of  being  his  masterpiece.  Englishmen 
,are  prone  to  hold  that  in  English  fiction  there  is  no  such  beautiful  and  complete 
embodiment  of  a  good  woman  as  Fielding's  Amelia  ;  Frenchmen,  we  should  fancy, 
must  ascribe  a  similar  position  to  Eugenie  Grandet.  The  book  of  which  she  is  the 
central  figure,  the  Rembrandt-contrast  to  the  ignoble  spirits  by  whom  she  is  sur« 
rounded,  has  been  beyond  a  doubt  one  of  the  most  widely  read  of  P'rench  novels; 
and  now  that  it  has  been  rendered  iiito  excellent  English,  and  presented  in  a 
highly  attractive  form,  it  will  undoubtedly  pass  into  the  mental  experience  of  a 
multitude  who  would  otherwise  have  lacked  more  than  a  hearsay  knowledge  of 
its  beauty.  The  translation  of  the  novels  so  far  published  by  the  Messrs.  Roberts 
Brothers  deserves  more  than  the  mere  word  that  can  be  given  to  it  here.  Although 
French  is  a  language  much  easier  to  read  than  German,  it  is  a  far  more  difficult 
task  to  turn  French  prose  into  idiomatic  English  prose  than  to  do  the  same  by 
German,  and  we  do  not  remembec  ever  to  have  seen  any  translation  of  French 
into  English  which  is  so  near  being  uniformly  idiomatic  as  these  versions  of 
Balzac  now  under  consideration."  —  Boston  Post. 

"  Not  to  know  Balzac,  Mr.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  has  declared  to  be  an 
ignorance  'that  will  soon  be  excuseless,  and  we  hope  rare.'  Not  to  know  Balzac 
is  certainly  to  lose  one  of  the  highest  intellectual  pleasures  and  to  shut  out  one  of 
the  profoundest  educational  forces  of  literature  in  this  century.  Balzac's  work  is 
thtou^hout  full  of  power."  —  Brooklyn   Times. 

'  This  volume  comes  to  us  as  the  fourth  in  the  series  of  translations  of  Balzac's 
nove.s,  published  by  this  well-known  Boston  house.  His  sketches  of  character 
are  nowhere  more  strong  and  masterly  than  in  this  book,  where  he  depicts  the 
miser,  Grandet,  in  all  the  repulsivcness  which  belongs  to  a  narrow,  grasping,  and 
unscrupulous  nature,  in  contrast  with  his  patient,  long-suffering,  repressed,  but 
faithful  and  tender  wife.  Their  only  child,  Eugenie,  is  the  heroine  of  the  story; 
and  her  strong,  simple,  and  loving  nature,  which  leads  her  to  sacrifice  her  future 
for  a  brilliant  but  unworthy  cousin,  who  wins  her  heart,  and  then  forgets  her  in 
his  search  for  a  more  ambitious  alliance,  furnishes  a  theme  where  Balzac's  literary 
skill  and  keen  analysis  of  motives  are  seen  at  their  best.  We  regret  that  the 
name  of  the  translator  has  not  been  made  public,  for  his  work  is  well  done,  and 
deserves  special  commendation  in  these  days,  when  so  many  poor  translations  of 
fbreign  works  are  offered  to  the  public."  —  Portland  Press. 

The  London  Atlienceum  says  of  the  translation  of  Balzac  which  Roberts 
"Brothers  are  publishing,  that  it  is  "  very  much  above  the  average  of  English 
translation  of  French."  

One  handsome  iimo  vobime,  uniform  with  "  Phv  Garioi,"  "  Duchesse  de 
Lanffcais"  and  '  Cesar  Birotteau."  Bound  in  fui!/  morocco,  French  stylt. 
Price,  %i,v>. 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

Boston- 


BALZAC    IN    ENGLISH. 


COUSIN    PONS. 

. ^ . 

"  It  is  late  in  the  day  to  speak  of  the  genius  of  Balzac,  but  it  is  worth  while  to 
commend  the  reader  to  the  admirable  translation  of  a  number  of  his  works 
issued  by  an  American  firm  of  publishers.  The  work  of  Miss  Wormeley,  whose 
name  does  not  appear  upon  the  titlepage,  but  who  is  said  to  be  the  translator  is 
deserving  of  the  highest  praise.  Balzac's  intensely  idiomatic  French,  as  well  as 
his  occasional  treatment  of  recondite  subjects,  and  his  frequent  elucidation  oS 
complicated  business  transactions,  render  the  translation  of  his  works  difficult ;  but 
the  present  translator  has  turned  the  original  into  clear  and  fluent  English,  read- 
ing not  at  all  like  a  translation,  yet  preserving  Balzac's  vigorous  and  characteristic 
style.  It  is  not  only  the  best  translation  of  Bahac  which  we  have,  —  which  would 
not  be  high  praise,  since  English  versions  of  his  novels  have  hitherto  been  few  and 
fragmentarv,  —  but  one  of  the  most  excellent  translations  of  any  French  author 
which  we  have  met.  The  publishers  have  laid  the  American  readers  under 
obligation  both  by  undertaking  the  enterprise  of  presenting  Balzac  in  an  English 
dress,  and  by  their  selection  of  a  translator ;  and  it  is  most  desirable  that  they 
should  complete  the  work  so  well  beg-un  by  putting  within  the  reach  of  English- 
Bpeaking  readers  the  remainder  of  that  marvellous  body  of  fiction,  The  Coniedie 
Humauie." —  The  Church  Review. 

"  '  Cousin  Pons'  is  the  latest  translation  in  the  Balzac  series  now  being  issued 
by  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston.  It  is  a  strong  story  of  friendship  and  of  greed.  To 
all  intents  and  purposes  the  narrative  indicates  a  complete  and  perlect  triumph  of 
vice  over  virtue  ;  but  vice  is  painted  in  such  hideous  colors,  and  virtue  is  shown  in 
such  effulgent  beauty,  as  to  make  the  moral  well-nigh  awe-inspiring.  Balzac  does 
not  stay  the  natural  course  of  events.  He  permits  each  character  to  work  out  its 
own  results,  and  then  makes  the  impression  desired  by  comparative  methods.  In 
this,  as  in  all  bis  works,  the  wonderful  writer  manifests  a  familiarity  with  the 
ethics  of  life  which  has  gained  for  him_  the  eternal  remembrance  and  gratitude 
of  ail  readers  ;  and  it  is  fair  to  presume  that  the  Balzac  now  being  translated  and 
published  by  the  Roberts  Brothers  will  revive  his  name  and  bring  again  to  his 
feet  the  world  of  English-speaking  people."  —  Spring,field  Republican. 

"  The  last  translation  from  Balzac  brought  out  by  Roberts  Brothers  in  their 
new  and  beautiful  edition  is  one  of  the  famous  Frenchman's  most  original  stories. 
It  is,  in  fact,  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  and  original  novels  ever  written,  and 
only  the  mind  of  a  genius  could  have  conceived  such  a  peculiar  plot.  The  heroine 
of  the  novel  — for  whom  the  principal  character  sacrifices  his  comfort,  his  pleasure, 
and  indeed  his  life  ;  for  whom  many  other  characters  in  the  book  sacrifice  their 
honor  ;  and  around  whom  all  the  excitement  and  interest  centres  —  is,  strangely 
enough,  not  a  woman  ;  and  yet  this  heroine  calls  forth  the  most  ardent  and 
passionate  devotion  a  man  is  capable  of,  and  her  influence  is  elevating  and  not 
degrading.  The  manner  in  which  a  mania  of  any  kind  can  absorb  a  man,  body 
and  soul,  is  wonderfiilly  brought  out  in  'Cousin  Pons;'  for  the  heroine  of  the 
book  is  a  collection  of  curios. 

"Those  who  have  formed  a  hasty  judgment  of  Balzac  from  reading  the  '  Ducnesse 
de  Langeais'  would  do  well  to  read  'Cousin  Pons.'  Balzac  sees  and  depicts 
virtue  as  perfectly  as  vice,  and  it  is  his  faculty  of  describing  beauty  as  well  as 
ugliness  which  has  made  him  famous.  The  delicacy  of  perception  which  en.b  ed 
him  to  perceive  and  describe  every  shade  of  feeling  in  '  Cousin  Pons  '  at  d  to 
appreciate  the  nobility  of  Schmucke's  character  is  the  chief  characteristic  ol 
genius.  The  reader  must  read  all  the  '  Scenes  from  Parisian  Lile  '  to  have  any 
full  conception  of  Balzac's  greatness.  His  breadth  of  vision,  his  dramatic  power, 
his  searching  analysis  of  the  most  transient  emotions,  and  his  quick  perceptions  of 
beauty,  are  all  evident  in  '  Cousin  Pons.'  It  is  an  interesting,  exciting  novel,  a 
perfect  piece  of  literary  execution,  and  a  story  which  is,  if  sad,  neither  coarse  not 
immoral."  —  Boston  Tratiscript. 

One  handsome  i2mo  volume,  uniform  with  "  Pere  Goriot," 
"  Duchesse  de  Langeais,"  "  Cesar  Birotteau,"  "  Eugenie  Grandet." 
Bound  in  half  morocco,  French  style.     Price,  $1.50. 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS,   Publishers,  Boston 


BALZAC     IN     ENGLISH. 


THE    ALKAHEST; 

Of",  The  House  of  Claes. 


AmotiR  the  novels  of  Honord  de  Balzac  "  La  Recherche  de  I'Absolu  "  has 
a]ways  coiMiied  one  of  the  masterpieces.  Tlie  terrible  dominion  of  a  fixed  idea 
[was  never  shown  with  more  tremendous  force  than  is  depicted  in  the  absorption  of 
all  the  powers,  the  mind,  and  body  of  lialih.i/.ar  Clacs  by  the  disire  to  discover 
the  Absolute,  the  "  Alknhest."  The  lovely  o.d  mansion  at  Duai,  its  sumptuous 
furniture,  its  priceless  |iiciures,  its  rare  bric-i-brac,  the  pyramid  of  costly  tulips 
that  glowed  in  (he  };arden,  are  painted  with  a  touch  rich  and  vivid,  which  shows 
Balzac  at  his  best.  This  great  novelist  was  always  minute  and  exhaustive  in  his 
descriptions;  but  in  this  story  the  material  in  which  he  worked  was  of  a  sort  to 
arouse  his  enthusiasm,  and  he  evidently  revels  in  the  attractive  setting  which  its 
events  demand.     The  tale  itself  is  penetrating  and  powerlul.  —  Boston  Courier. 

The  "  .'Vlk-ihest  "  is  a  strong  story,  and  all  throui;h  it  is  to  be  felt  that  sub- 
current  of  vitalizing  energy  which  in  so  many  of  Balzac's  books  seems  to  pri  pe! 
the  principal  characters  as  in  a  special  atninsjihere,  hurrjing  them  with  a  kind  of 
fiery  yet  restrained  impatience  toward  the  doom  assigned  them.  .  .  .  The  scien- 
tific and  mystical  features  of  the  story  are  cleverly  handled.  Balzac  made  deep 
inquests  bet'ore  writing  his  philosophical  studies,  as  he  called  them,  and  he  was 
always  rather  ahead  than  abreast  of  tbe  thoughts  of  his  time.  The  central  prob- 
lem dealt  with  here  is,  of  course,  as  complete  a  mystery  to-day  as  when  the 
"  Recherche  de  TAbsclu  "  was  written.  .  .  .  Miss  Wormeley  has  made  a  char.io 
teristically  excellent  translation  of  a  book  which  presents  many  unusual  difticullief 
and  abstruse  points.  It  is  rarely  possible  to  assert  with  any  truth  that  an  English 
version  of  a  French  book  may  be  read  by  the  public  with  nearly  as  much  profit 
and  apprehension  as  the  original  ;  but  it  is  the  simple  fact  in  this  instance,  and  it 
is  certainly  remarkable  enough  to  deserve  emphasis. — Aew  York  Tribuyie. 

He  who  would  know  the  art  of  novel-writing  may  go  to  Balzac  and  find  an  art 
that  is  natural,  simp'e,  and  beautiful  in  its  exercise,  and  is  directed  to  both  thoughl 
and  feeling  in  behalf  of  humanity,  and  that  realizes  something  good  and  enduring. 
He  may  look  without  much  trouble  at  "  The  Alkahest ;  or,  Tlie  House  of  (Jlaes," 
one  of  the  most  illustrative  of  the  author's  method  and  aim,  and  excelling  in 
philosophical  analysis  and  in  philosophical  value. 

In  this  work  Balzac  has  opposed  the  heart  and  intellect  in  a  contest  amid  th 
conditions  of  social  life,  and  sought  to  reveal  their  comparative  nature  and  influ, 
ence,  siding,  although  a  remarkable  example  himself  of  intellectual  development 
and  force,  in  favor  of  the  heart,  —  that  I'lemish  heart  which  is  ideal  of  all  that  is 
powerful  lor  good  and  happiness  in  domestic  life,  and  determines  1-  lemisli  charao 
ter  so  strongly  that  the  qualities  of  that  character  impress  themselves  fixedly  in 
Flemish  painting  and  architecture.  —  Stmday  Globe,  Boston. 

One  more  scene  in  Balzac's  wonderful  "  Comedy  of  Human  Life."  It  is  "The 
Alkahest;  or.  The  House  of  Claes,"  the  greatest  of  the  "philosophical  studies." 
It  tells  of  the  mad,  persistent,  vain  endeavors  of  Balthazar,  a  scientist,  to  dis- 
cover the  Absolute.  Through  years  he  squanders  his  estate  in  fruitless  experi- 
ments. Ii  is  a  drama  that  slowly  chills  the  blood.  Then  comes  the  Jitialt, 
"  Suddenly  the  dying  man  raised  himself  by  his  wrists,  and  Cast  on  his  frightened 
children  a  look  which  struck  like  lightning  ;  the  hairs  that  fringed  the  bald  head 
stirred,  the  wrinkles  quivered,  the  features  were  illumined  with  spiritual  fires,  a 
breath  passed  across  that  face  and  rendered  it  sublime.  He  raised  a  hand 
(Clenched  in  fury,  and  uttered  with  a  piercing  en'  the  lamous  word  of  Archimedes, 
'Eureka!'  —  1  have  found."  It  is  the  way  Balthazar  found  the  Absolute.— 
PhiUidclphia  Press- 
One  handsome  I  zvio  volume,  uniform  with  "  Pcre  Goriot,"  "  The 
Dnchesse  de  Lan^eais"  "  Char  Birotleau"  "  Eui^cnie  Grandet" 
"  Cousin  Pons,"  "'  The  Country  Doctor,"  and  "  The  Two  Brothers.'^ 
Bound  in  half  morocco,  French  style.     Price,  $1.50. 

KOBIiRTS    PKfiTHERS.  PuMi^hers.  Rostov. 


UNW.  OF  CALIF.  UBRARY,  tOS  ANGEUS 


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